


Project Truthseekers #3:  Welcome to the Nightmare

by spookyawards_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: An X-File Case, Angst, F/M, Friendship, Romance, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-31
Updated: 2005-12-31
Packaged: 2019-04-28 04:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14441568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyawards_archivist/pseuds/spookyawards_archivist
Summary: "The New Truth" offers an alternative to S9wherein Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, with the assistance of Agent John Doggett, Agent Monica Reyes and AssistantDirector Walter Skinner, establish and lead a global resistance to the impending alien colonization.





	Project Truthseekers #3:  Welcome to the Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Spooky Awards](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spooky_Awards), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [SpookyAwards' collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/spookyawards/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Many characters contained herein are the property of 1013 Productions and 20th Century Fox. No profit is being made from the posting of this story.

  
Author's notes: Many characters contained herein are the property of 1013 Productions and 20th Century Fox. No profit is being made from the posting of this story.  


* * *

Prologue 

Scully woke up abruptly, suddenly aware that something was very wrong. She reached for her bedmate, but her hand encountered only cool percale. She sat up, her heart pounding. 
    
    
         "Mulder?!" she called, her voice trembling.
         There was no answer.  Terrified, she got up, unaware of
    

the chill on her bare arms and feet, and dashed next door to the baby's room. The bassinet was empty, too. 
    
    
         \\...omigodomigodomigodomigodomigod...\\
         She choked back a shriek as she turned toward the
    

front of the apartment. There was a dark head showing above the back of her rocking chair, which was turned toward the window. 

Relief almost took out her knees. Panic subsiding, her intellect kicked in. \\\It's been weeks since he had a nightmare or a flashback, but why else would he be up and out here...?\\\ 

Mulder was only wearing cotton sleep pants. The apartment was very cool and he was shivering as he cradled their son close. The baby, she noted, was well wrapped up in the blankets from the bassinet. She moved a step to one side, to try for a look at her lover's face. 

He was crying, his mouth distorted though no sound emerged. His face was wet with tears. 

Scully shuddered, then squared her shoulders and moved into the room. She deliberately did not attempt to remain quiet. A few steps to the right put her in his line of sight. 

He avoided eye contact with her and tried to dry his tears on his shoulder when he realized she was watching him. He noted uneasily that she was the same height as... Ruthlessly, he forced that thought away: Scully was nothing like his captors! 
    
    
         But he could feel himself sweating with fear.
         He tightened his hold on his son, inarticulately aware of
    

a need to protect the child from any danger. The bitterness of failure overwhelmed him, then: he couldn't even handle a bad dream, anymore. What could he do for his son? Will needed a father with courage, a father who could stand between him and danger and keep him safe and free long enough to grow up, to grow into his power... 
    
    
         "Mulder?"
         Her voice was so close that he flinched; he had been
    inside his head, and he had not noticed her approach.
         "Shh...  Relax, Mulder.  It's all right," she said softly.
    "You're cold, love.  Let's go snuggle on the couch?"
         He did not react; Scully had time to feel her fear rising
    

once again before he took a deep breath and carefully stood up. Wordlessly, with communication perfected over their years together, they arranged themselves on the couch and Scully pulled the blankets off the back of the couch and wrapped them all up. 

She snuggled close, until Mulder shifted to put one arm around her shoulders while the other kept Will snug against his chest. 

Scully sighed and laid her head on his chest beside her son. Her hand lay lightly on Mulder's belly, and she felt his muscles flinch from the contact. 
    
    
         "I'm sorry I woke you."  His voice sounded rusty.
         "Your absence woke me," she said softly.  "That's my
    nightmare: waking up alone."
         He stiffened beneath her.  "Oh, my God!  I'm so sorry,
    Scully--!"
         She turned her head and kissed the nearest part of his
    bare chest.  He froze at that first touch of her lips.
         "Hush.  I know what's going on," she whispered, "and I
    

know you're trying to cope. I just wish you'd come back to bed after you get William." 

"It's not safe to sleep with an infant," he said distantly. "Babies get crushed and smothered like that every day." 

"I seriously doubt either of us would be sleeping," she smiled sadly. "I don't want you to feel that you have to do this alone, Mulder. I want to help." 

Warmth and affection were working their magic: Mulder was finally relaxing. "You are helping," he admitted. "You're here. You let me stay here..." 

"This is your home, Mulder. Your home and your family." 

The words must have stabbed especially deeply; his face started to crumple. She nuzzled closer, trying to divert his attention. 

His hand came up to ever-so-lightly stroke her hair once, twice. "You're too good for me, Scully." 

His voice was a ravaged thing, roughened by grief and terror, weakened by deprivation. She nestled closer, rubbing her cheek against his body, nuzzling inside the blanket to kiss father and son where they touched. 
    
    
         "You're all I want in this world and the next, Mulder."
         His hand tightened in her hair.  She leaned into his
    

touch, and conversation lapsed for a while. They were so good at being quiet together, that it was a natural thing, comforting to them both. 

It was long minutes later, and she was drowsing, warm and content, when she realized he was crying silently again. Rather than speak, she just slid her hand across his body and hugged him. 

"It's been months," he moaned as he fought to control himself. "Why is this happening to me?" 

"I think you're finally really strong enough to handle it," she said gently. "I suspect that the physical damage they inflicted on you was the least traumatic part. What do you think?" 

He shuddered. "I... I was dreaming of waking up in the coffin," he whispered. "I can hear you talking, and Skinner, and Doggett... Then dirt starts hitting the coffin lid..." 

She stared up at his face, horrified and not trying to hide it. "You were NOT conscious, Mulder! There's no way you were conscious then! You were--" Her throat seized up on the blunt monosyllable. 

"Dead?" He said it for her. "I suppose so. I don't know if it's really a memory, Scully. I really don't. It could be something I extrapolated from your explanation of events that I missed. But that doesn't make it any less awful..." 

"Do darkness and small spaces bother you, now?" she asked hesitantly. 

"Not really," he shook his head. "But the sound of dirt hitting the lid...? That's bad. The smell of freshly-turned but very cold dirt. The smell of the snow... But mostly it's that sound... It still echoes." 

They lay together on the couch until Mulder fell asleep and only then did Scully allow herself the same respite. In typically contrary fashion, no sooner had they both settled in for some sleep than Will woke up, hungry and not the least bit hesitant to demand what he wanted. 

Mulder woke up with a start at his son's first querulous and sleepy sound. It took him a moment to be sure that there was no external reason for Will's distress. It was when the infant turned pursed lips toward his father, plainly seeking something upon which to suckle, that Mulder realized the issue. 

"Scully... Scully, wake up," he called softly, rubbing his knuckles against her cheek. 
    
    
         "Hmm...?"
         Mulder slid Will down into her arms.  Scully woke up to
    

find her son rooting inside her night shirt. She helped him find a nipple and then leaned back against Mulder to enjoy the experience. 

Mulder watched, fascinated. Scully was not shy about this, and he had watched her nurse Will many times. His trauma forgotten for the moment, he watched his son suckle. When a drop of milk formed on the other nipple in sympathy, he bent his head and lapped it up himself. 

Scully chuckled, startled by the unexpected contact. He did not just lave her nipple clean; he latched on and sucked hard, once. Scully moaned, letting her head fall back against his shoulder as the twin sensations rocketed straight to her sex. 

Mulder shuddered; that moan had been vividly explicit. He swallowed, then bent to kiss her mouth. 

He tasted of milk and himself and stale coppery terror, and Scully leaned into that kiss, giving it all she had, determined to lick and suck all that fear away from him and replace it with lust. 
    
    
         He pulled away, suddenly.
         "Hey," she protested.
         "I'm sorry, Scully," he murmured, turning his head away.
    "I'm sorry.  I shouldn't--"
         "You shouldn't what?" she growled.
         "I shouldn't start what you can't finish," he said humbly,
    trying to get away from her without being obvious.
         She tightened her hold on him.  "Have you lost your
    mind?  Get back here!"
         He resisted.  "Will needs you."
         Deftly she switched their son to the other side.  "Will's
    

getting what he needs. I want what I need." With her free hand she grabbed Mulder by the hair and pulled his face back down. She kissed him hard and he surrendered to her, not participating at all but letting her do what she would. 

Scully only put up with that for a minute. She broke the kiss to study his face. "Mulder, I know you're feeling rather fragile, but I still need you to be you," she said gently. "We aren't just assigned partners any more. We're life mates. We're parents together. And after everything we've endured in order to be together and raise our child, I'm not letting anything else stand between us. We have to talk to each other about what hurts and what isn't working as much as we do about the good and functional parts of our lives. What do you need from me that I'm not giving you?" 

He was shivering, now; they were both still wrapped up in the blanket, and they were sharing enough skin to skin contact that she knew it was not a physical chill. 
    
    
         "I...  I don't know if I can talk about this," he whispered.
         He was not looking at her; his eyes were unfocused and
    

blank. That frightened Scully more than she cared to admit. He had rarely, in their years together, been unable to face her. 

"Mulder? I love you, and I want you to get better. But PTSD is pernicious and you've been enduring its effects for years. We both have to work at this, but the burden is mostly yours." 

"I know," he said very quietly. "It's just that..." His voice trailed away. 
    
    
         "That what?" she prompted gently.
         "My perception of reality is... unconvincing," he
    

admitted. "I sometimes wonder if this is living as a SuperSoldier -- I think I'm here with you and Will, but this is just a hallucination, that there's an over-mind that controls my SuperSoldier body and I'm totally unaware of what I'm really doing or where I am..." 

She was horrified. "I suppose that me reassuring you that you're real and I'm real wouldn't help?" 

His chuckle was bitter and he was still shivering. "Not to cast aspersions on your honesty, but no. My fantasy Scully would do anything she could to help me figure this out." 
    
    
         "So will the real one," she assured him.
         "I trust you, Scully.  I don't trust myself.  Too much of my
    

memory of the past year is missing; I've never lost more than hours before, and now I've lost months! It makes this all feel unreal." 
    
    
         "Even Will's birth doesn't help?"
         "The fact that Billy Miles and the others took no action
    

except to witness the birth makes no sense, so that seems to be real," he admitted. "But if I'm creating the hallucination, that's what I'd expect, so I can't trust it!" 

Scully reached for him with her free hand, stroked his face gently. He closed his eyes and leaned into her caress, kissed her palm. 

"Mulder... Don't go borrowing trouble. You're worrying about a paranoid fantasy that you know isn't true. There's no reason for a SuperSoldier to retain anything but the memories of the human host. There isn't any real sign of personality; nothing that can't be explained by the retention of memories that the SuperSoldier consciousness can tap. If there was anything of Billy Miles left, wouldn't he have done something to let us know?" 

Mulder shuddered. "Maybe he was trying to, Scully. Maybe he was supposed to do something awful, but there was enough of Billy left to prevent that." 

"Maybe. But there's no reason to suppose that you're not exactly what you seem to be: my Mulder." 

He was startled to realize, as she kissed him again, that he believed her. 

* * *

Christmastime in Georgetown

J. D. Crawford parked his car, turned off the engine and pocketed the keys. He reached for the door handle. His hand sat there on the handle but he did not move. 

\\\I can't believe he's dead,\\\ he sighed. \\\I can't imagine how difficult this had to have been for Dana. I know if they were married I'd've heard... I got an Email from Mulder just a few months ago. He would have told me.\\\ 

He remembered the smug tone of his informant and remembered how good it had felt when Colton's ASAC overheard him sniggering at the murder of a fellow agent and casting aspersions on the honor of another and of an FBI Assistant Director. 

\\\Dana, pregnant, burying Mulder...\\\ He shuddered. \\\There's no way she could have been messing with AD Skinner. If she's pregnant, it's with Mulder's child.\\\ Colton's ASAC had given him a dressing-down in front of the entire multi-agency task force. It had been a sweet twenty minutes... Colton had deserved worse, but it was enough. 

He felt cold to the bone, though the December weather was unseasonably mild. He had missed the funeral because he had been deep in an undercover operation and unable to travel. He had sent flowers to the funeral and to Scully at home, and he had called. She had been clearly fighting to maintain her composure, clearly grief-stricken and distraught. He had kept the call short. 

Now, months later, he was in Georgetown at Christmas time, hoping to be here for his friend's lover as they spent their first holiday season without Fox Mulder. 

It felt a little odd; he and Mulder had not been close for a long time, but they had kept in touch, mostly by Email. Now he felt terrible about neglecting the friendship. He had known that Mulder and Scully were fond of one another far beyond their assigned partnership, but to find Agent Scully had been pregnant had been shocking. 

\\\He must not have known that she was pregnant. He would never have left her, never have put himself at such risk, if he had known. He'd've had to be surgically detached from her side!\\\ 

Crawford scrubbed at his face briefly. Fox Mulder had been kidnapped, held prisoner, tortured and murdered, probably by members of the gigantic international crime consortium that he and Scully had been investigating for years. Finally, he had apparently annoyed or frightened the bad guys once too often, and they had taken steps. 
    
    
         \\Leaving Dana alone and pregnant...\\
         He took a deep breath and got out of the car.  It had
    

been months since the funeral; she had surely had the baby by now. 
    
    
         \\If she managed not to lose it...\\
         He had known several widows of agents who had been
    

murdered on duty who had miscarried due to the grief and shock, and hoped desperately that Scully had avoided that fate. It would be so incredibly cruel for her to be so doubly bereaved... 

That was why he was empty-handed. In his pocket he had a small wrapped box; it contained a framed photograph of himself and Fox Mulder, taken backstage at their Academy graduation. Mulder was posing goofily behind a widely-grinning J. D. Crawford, and Mulder was waggling two fingers behind his friend's head. If an appropriate moment presented itself, he would give this to Dana. 

There was no gift for the baby; if Dana had miscarried, he did not want to remind her. If there was a baby, he could go out and buy a gift later, but he did not want to arrive with a gift for a child who had not survived. 

He was not completely certain that Dana still lived here, but he had no place else to look. If she didn't live here any longer, he'd have to go to the Hoover Building and talk to Walt Skinner. 

His musing had taken him all the way to Dana's apartment door. He took a deep breath and steeled himself, then lifted his hand to the bell. 

He heard it ring inside, but there was no other response. He knocked and waited. There was still no answer. 

"Dana?" he called, wondering if she was in there hiding from the world... or from the season. "Dana, are you in there?" 

An elderly woman came around the corner just then, using a two-wheeled walker with ease and dispatch. She had clearly heard him; she looked him up and down appraisingly without speaking. Crawford gritted his teeth and resolved to be polite. 

"And what's your name, young man, and your business with Miss Scully?" 

Crawford sighed. Every neighborhood had its self-appointed caretaker and this woman plainly was the one. "I'm JD Crawford, ma'am," he answered. "I found myself in town for the holidays and I thought I'd stop by. Do you know where she is?" 

The old woman snorted. "She moved upstairs to 264, in the back, a few months ago. Believe you me, no one was happier to see her move than I was! No more strange men coming and going at odd hours, no more shootings. It's been downright peaceful around here, since she moved!" 

Crawford wished he had a hat to tip. "Thank you very much, ma'am. I'll head up that way, then?" he gestured further down the hall. 

The old woman nodded. "Yes. Go up one flight and take the left corridor nearly to the end. 264 is on the right. She hung a wreath on the door yesterday." 

"Thank you very much, ma'am." He waited till she nodded and continued her way toward the exit. Then he headed farther into the building. 

It did not take him long to locate the correct apartment: the building was laid out rather like a hotel, with odd-numbered apartments on one side and even-numbered on the other. It was a matter of minutes before he stood in front of the door that had to be 264, though its number was hidden by a luxuriant wreath of fresh holly decorated with fake berries, a big red bow and some sprayed-on snow. Once again he took a deep breath and rang the door bell. 

He heard the chime inside, and heard a baby's querulous squall. He closed his eyes in a moment of utter relief: even though bereaved of partner and lover, Dana was not alone, and a part of Mulder lived on in his child. 
    
    
         \\This may be a little easier than I feared...\\
         The door swung open, and Crawford had a moment's
    

time to react as he was faced with a grim-faced stranger: \\\Ooops. Wrong apartment, after all!\\\ "Hi, I was looking for a lady named Dana Scully...?" 

* * *

It had been nice to relax, and lately this was the only  
place any of them ever really relaxed. John Doggett jumped,  
startled, when the door bell sounded. He glanced around the  
room: Monica was beside him on the couch; Frohike and  
Langley were in the kitchen concocting a dessert, Byers and  
Skinner were in chairs near the fireplace. Mulder and Scully  
were in the back putting baby Will to bed.

Doggett traded frowns with Reyes. Their little sixth column was all right here; their one auxiliary, Maggie Scully, had gone to San Diego to spend Christmas with Bill and Tara and their children. Who could be at the door? 

With a shrug --there was only one way to find out-- Doggett got to his feet. A moment behind him, Reyes was at his shoulder. She took a guard's position, her back to the front wall and her Glock held at low ready, the barrel pointing at the floor between her feet. 

Moving silently, Skinner got up from his chair and came over to back Reyes. Byers, realizing at once that this was outside his area of expertise, went to the kitchen door to keep his partners out of range. 

Doggett did not draw his own weapon, trusting Reyes and Skinner to handle any necessary lethal response. A brief peek through the security peephole hidden from outside by a decorative wreath revealed a tall handsome black man, somber of expression and of garb. His black trench coat hid most of a good but not designer-made charcoal-colored wool suit with a forest green silk tie. 
    
    
         Still frowning, Doggett opened the door.
         The man seemed startled.  "Uh, hi.  I was looking for a
    lady named Dana Scully...?"
         Doggett reacted instantly, of no mind to let this man
    

have any sort of advantage. He grabbed the man by the tie and the wrist, used his own foot hooked behind the man's ankle and jerked it out from under him as he jerked on the tie and pulled on the man's wrist. 

With a startled cry, the man started to fall. Doggett twisted the man's arm up between his shoulderblades and shoved him face down onto the floor, then followed him down, landing astride, then planting a knee in the small of the man's back to hold him down. 

"Hey!" The man's voice was muffled because his face was being mashed into the carpet. 

Reyes moved up beside Doggett and deftly cuffed the prisoner's hands behind his back. Doggett frisked him briskly, removing a small wrapped package from a pocket in the overcoat, and a Glock Model 22 from a clip holster on the man's belt. He handed the weapon to Reyes, who tucked it into her own waistband for safekeeping. 

Leaning a little harder onto the man's back, Doggett used one hand to probe roughly at the back of his neck. He pulled the man's shirt collar away from, looking for signs of metal vertebrae, though he was reasonably sure he would never have been able to take down a real SuperSoldier so easily. 

Satisfied that there were no metal vertebrae, Doggett reached into his pocket for his folding knife. He flipped open the Gerber E-Z-Out one-handed and deliberately flicked the razor-sharp edge against the prisoner's earlobe. 

The resulting blood was reassuringly red. Doggett felt himself relax a little. Whoever this was, he was human: neither a SuperSoldier, nor a Bounty Hunter, nor a clone. He put his knife away and finished frisking the prisoner, pulling the man's wallet out of his pants pocket. 
    
    
         "John?"
         That was Scully's voice, her tone soft and puzzled.
    

Doggett looked up and had to fight not to react to the image of her studying him. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and he could not, in conscience, react to her the way his body wanted him to react. 
    
    
         "Who is that?" she asked.
         "He's a red-blooded human named..."  He flipped open
    

the man's wallet to view his driver's license. "Jerome D. Crawford of Los Angeles, California." 

"Sky?!" Scully tried to see the man's face, but it was turned away and he was pinned too firmly to be able to move. "Sky, is that you?!" 
    
    
         "Yeah."  The voice was muffled by carpet fiber.
         "John, let him go.  He's a friend of ours."
         Doggett got off the prisoner and helped him sit up. He
    made no move to unlock the handcuffs.
         Crawford looked up, drinking in the sight of her. "Hi,
    Dana."
         She smiled.  "Hello, Sky.  Merry Christmas.  John, let
    him go."
         Doggett complied, handing the cuffs back to Reyes,
    who put them back in place on her belt.
         Scully approached, offered him her hands as if to lift
    him to his feet.
         Crawford saw the still-wary expression on the man and
    

woman who had taken him down so efficiently, and he stood up without touching Scully. 

"What is it about your friends and handcuffs?" he asked her, remembering how they had met and rubbing his wrists. 

Scully chuckled. "It's just you, Sky. You must present as a really scary guy." 

"Me?!" He was about to say more, but a movement behind her caught his eye. A tall man with a familiar way of moving was emerging from the shadows behind Scully. There was the unmistakable form of an infant in his arms. Crawford's throat closed up as he contemplated what had to be Scully's child and all it meant. 
    
    
         Then his attention focused on the man holding the baby.
         It was, undeniably, Fox Mulder.
         For a long moment, J.  D.  Crawford could not breathe. 
    Then he straightened, drew in a long shaky breath.
         "Snake Plissken?!" He managed a creditable grin.  "I
    thought you... were..."  His voice failed him.
         Mulder handed Will off to his mother and went over to
    hug his friend.  "Hey, Sky.  Long time no see."
         Crawford did not quite believe what he was seeing and
    

hearing, but the touch of his friend's arms was real enough. He hugged Mulder hard. When they broke apart, after only a few moments, neither was ashamed to be seen blinking back tears. 

"You're just in time for dessert, Sky," Mulder said calmly. "C'mon in, take a load off. Give me your coat. Find a seat. Frohike!" he called as he peeled the trench coat off a stunned Crawford's shoulders. "More eggnog! With extra whiskey!" 

Frohike came out of the kitchen with a pitcher in one hand, a new bottle of whiskey in the other, and a wicker basket full of glasses dangling off his right thumb. He raked Crawford with an appraising glance up and down, and nodded shortly. 

"J. D. Crawford, DEA. Currently on leave after ten months in deep cover in the Golden Triangle and six weeks in a military hospital in Germany recovering." 

Crawford could only stare. "Wha'...? How do you know that?!" 

Frohike shrugged as he set the pitcher of eggnog down on the coffee table. "It's my job. Mulder, you should have told him when you resurrected; he was hurtin'." 

Crawford was standing by the couch; he reached for the arm and sat down, trying to look cool when he felt anything but. 

Scully took pity on him. She sat down in her rocker with the baby still in her arms. "Sky, relax. I wasn't lying to you when you called; I had just come from the cemetery and I was truly in mourning. But three months later Skinner found some fascinatingly terrifying information... and had Mulder exhumed. We got him to the hospital and we brought him back." 

Her voice was shaking just a little; Mulder moved to stand behind her, put his hands down on her shoulders and began to massage them gently. She looked up and smiled at him; Crawford saw the love shining in that smile and had to smile, himself. 
    
    
         "Oh, well, in that case..." he grinned.
         Reyes laughed then and set about serving the eggnog.
    

She served everyone a glassful of eggnog first, and then started the whiskey bottle around on its own so everyone could decide for themselves how much they wanted. Introductions followed; Crawford found himself a little confused about why the three civilians were present, but said nothing. It was pretty clear that he had interrupted a private Christmas party; Mulder had never had too many friends. But it was unusual to see his CO here; Mulder had never been good at making nice with the brass. It was very puzzling. 

While everyone else was settling back down, Mulder moved around Scully's chair to sit at her feet. He leaned against Scully's knee a little, pillowing his head on her thigh, looping his arm around her ankles from behind. Scully's hand came down to his head and she slid her fingers through his hair in a well-practiced caress. 

Crawford swallowed the lump in his throat; it was such a sweet and loving tableau, and Mulder had done it so unselfconsciously that it was plain that this was not the first time. 

\\\Last time I saw them, they had barely gotten as far as exchanging meaningful glances and the occasional fingertip to skin... This is so wonderful...!\\\ 

"So, how did you guys meet?" Reyes was the one who offered the neutral conversational option. "If you're DEA I'd suppose you didn't meet Mulder and Scully through work." 

Crawford flashed her a quick smile. "You'd be wrong. You really want to hear how this happened? It's a long story..." 

Skinner leaned back in the easy chair he had chosen. "Go for it, Agent Crawford. It's a good story, and we have no place we have to be but right here." 

Crawford swung his attention back to Mulder and Scully, who were both looking at him. "What do you think?" 

Mulder grinned suddenly. "Sure. Let's. I'm in a mood for nostalgia." His gaze took in the other agents. "Many moons ago, when I was still an FBI agent and I'd only come back from the dead a couple of times..." 
    
    
         "What?!"  Crawford interrupted him.  "You \quit\?!"
         Anger flashed briefly in Mulder's eyes.  "No, I did not
    quit.  I was fired."
         "What idiot would fire you?!"
         Everyone laughed at that.  Mulder answered.  "Deputy
    Director Alvin Kersh."
         "You were fired by a DD named after a chipmunk??"
         More chuckles.
         Mulder grinned and shook his head.  "I haven't decided,
    

really, if Kersh is just completely without any sense of honor or humor, or if he's a puppet. Either way, I'm doing the Mister Mom thing; Scully's back at Quantico part-time, and John and Monica have the X Files. It's not ideal... but at least I'm not completely cut off. The work is proceeding, if grindingly slow." 

"And you have a child." Crawford could not hide the longing and the awe he felt; Mulder smiled gently. 

"Yep. William Fox Mulder. Named after my dad, Scully's, and the suspect in the first case Scully and I worked together." 

Crawford frowned. "That's a weird thing to commemorate, isn't it? The criminal, I mean?" 

Mulder shrugged. "Billy Miles isn't exactly a criminal, but he is the single most significant acquaintance we have in common." 
    
    
         "That sounds like a story I want to hear."
         Mulder grinned.  "Let's do the Beltway Butcher first.
    Then we'll talk about SuperSoldiers  and alien invasions."
         "Okaaaayyy..."
          ~~~~~~~~~~
    Washington DC [Between Goldberg Variation- and Orison
         She had been lying in bed for hours, staring through the
    

darkness at the featureless ceiling. Her mind just would not stop: it was like a panicked, terrified gerbil, racing along at top speed, desperate for refuge, refusing to see that there was no escape, that she was running in a wheel. 

She was alone. Her partner was gone. Her mental voice screamed his name across the other planes, but her cries were not answered. 
    
    
         He was still alive; she had no doubt of that.
         She had long since given up trying his cell phone.  It had
    

been four days since he had left the Hoover Building alone to pick her up. She had finished the autopsy of the sixteenth known victim of the Beltway Butcher, the target of the task force to which she and Mulder had been assigned two weeks before. 

Her mind betrayed her, then, flashing her the image of the last of the Butcher's known victims. Elliott Hessenfeld had been a financial analyst for a large brokerage firm. He had been wearing an Armani suit and a Rolex watch when he disappeared. His body, clothed only in the suit's pants, had been found partially consumed by fire. He had been identified by the initials engraved on the watch and his dental records. He had been bound, flogged with a chain, tortured further with knife cuts, including some that had been deep enough to cause internal bleeding. However, the cause of death had been smoke inhalation. 

\\\Tortured, in agony, chained down to the wooden floor, left to die in a tool shed set ablaze.\\\ 

She shuddered, trying to dismiss the image. But she did not want to think about Mulder enduring what Hessenfeld had, either. She fought those imaginings back, though it took all her strength. 

\\\Chained down, bloody, fire roaring before him, screaming, crying my name...\\\ 
    
    
         The phone rang, and she froze.
         It rang again, and the sound made her flinch.  Who
    could be calling her?
         Slowly she reached out one hand and picked up the
    handset.
         "Hello?"  She heard a gasp, and recognized it at once.
    "Mulder?!  Is that you?!"
         "Scully...?"
         She stiffened at the whimper she heard in his voice. 
    "Mulder?  Where are you?" she demanded.
         He was panting, almost sobbing for breath.  "Umm... M
    Street.  M Street and... 64th. Come 'n' get me?"
         She was reaching for her clothes, holding the phone
    

against her head with her shoulder. "Where have you been, Mulder? What happened?" 
    
    
         His panicked breathing was not calming.  "I escaped..."
         \\Oh, sweet Jesus...!\\  "Escaped?  Mulder, what did he
    do to you?!"
         He did not answer; instead, he made a sound she had
    rarely heard from him: a moan of unbearable pain.
         "Mulder?!"
         He did not answer her this time, either.
         "Mulder?!  What happened?  What did he do to you?!"
         "He...  He..."  Her partner's teeth were chattering, now; it
    

made speech difficult, and made her believe he was both inadequately clothed and going into shock. The image of Elliott Hessenfeld's body flashed through her consciousness again: Hessenfeld might still have been able to walk and talk when he was chained down in the tool shed... 
    
    
         "He what, Mulder?" she asked, terrified.
         "...burned me..."  Mulder whispered, barely coherent.
         That convinced Scully.  "Mulder, I'm sending you an
    ambulance.  They can get to you faster than I can..."
         "No!  NO!"  He was instantly almost hysterical.  "I won't!" 
    He was gasping for air, still protesting.
         "Mulder, calm down!" she ordered firmly, confused at
    

his vehemence. "It's all right. I'm still here. Just tell the ambulance crew to bring you to G-triple-you, and I'll meet you in the ER." 

"No! No ambulance! He's chasin' me; I have t' keep movin'..." Mulder was barely understandable. 
    
    
         "You'll be safe with the ambulance crew, Mulder..."
         "NO!  He drives an ambulance."  Still panting, still in
    

obvious pain, Mulder was calming a little as they spoke. "I'll watch for you. Hurry up. I gotta go; I'm too visible here." 

Scully flinched when she heard the connection terminated. 

"Damn him! Damn him!!" She cursed her partner and the situation in general all the while she pulled on her boots and put on her badge, her weapon and her coat. She continued to curse while she ran to her car. After that she was too busy planning the fastest route out there, and calling the FBI's Officer of the Day on her cell phone. 
    
    
         "FBI DC, Special Agent Grodin.  How can I help you?"
         "Chris, this is Dana Scully."
         "Hi, Dana.  Any news?"  Every agent in the Capitol area
    knew her partner was MIA.
         "Yeah; Mulder just called me for a ride home.  I want you
    to call DC PD and get them looking for him."
         "Why do you need help for that?"  Grodin was puzzled.
    "Didn't he tell you where he was?"
         "He's hurt, and he's running, Chris.  He says he
    

escaped from the Beltway Butcher, but the guy is chasing him. He's going to be hiding. But he's hurt, Chris. I could tell by the way he was talking, and he admitted that the Butcher burned him. I tried to send him an ambulance, but he says the Butcher drives an ambulance, and he won't risk recapture." 

"God, no!" Grodin had seen the crime scene photos of the first victim. "But that's a huge break in the case, isn't it?" 

"Yeah, it is," Scully admitted as she got on the Beltway and accelerated. "I want DC cops visible in the area of M Street and 64th so Mulder can get help if he needs it. He's not thinking very clearly; he's in a lot of pain. But I think he'll be willing to go to uniformed cops, especially if there are more than one of them." 

"And I can get them there if they think they might get a chance to collar the Beltway Butcher," Chris agreed grimly. "I assume you're on the way?" 

"Oh, yeah," she agreed grimly. "You might warn 'em I'm driving a silver Taurus, DC plates BTT, that's Baker Tango Tango, 2398. I'm doing about eighty headed for lightspeed." 

"I'm on it, Dana," Chris Grodin assured her, his tone grim. "Good luck. I'll be eavesdropping on DC PD radio, so I'll probably know what happens..." 

"If we resolve this without them, I'll call you when the situation is stable," she promised. 
    
    
         "You want some back up of your own?"
         "No, thanks, Chris.  Without uniforms, in the dark, he
    

probably won't see them as help. But it might be a good idea if you called AD Skinner and brought him up-to-date." 
    
    
         "Will do."
         "Thanks, Chris."
         +++
         Chris Grodin made good on his word.  In the last six
    

blocks before she reached M Street and 64th, Scully saw no less than seven patrol units from DC PD, and several unmarked cars, as well. 

She slowed down as she crossed 62nd Street, and saw one of those plain sedans moving toward her. As it went by, the two DC detectives inside saluted and went on. They had recognized her license plate. 

As she came up on 64th Street, she searched the pedestrians on the sidewalks on both sides of the street. As she approached the light, an oncoming car stopped alongside her. Inside, she saw two detectives she recognized; Caffrey and Kasimov from DC's Homicide unit. They were part of the Beltway Butcher Task Force; she and Mulder had been working with them for over two weeks. 

"Agent Scully," Kasimov was driving, and stopped beside her, driver's door to driver's door, so they could talk. "See any sign of the bastard?" He ignored traffic backing up behind them in both directions. 
    
    
         She shook her head.  "No.  Seen any sign of Mulder?"
         Kasimov's expression was sad.  "No, ma'am.  But
    we've got every available car looking."
         "Thank you.  You have no idea how much I appreciate
    this..."
         "Hey, Dana."  That was Caffrey, from the passenger
    side. "He's one of us; we want him back."
         "He told me the Butcher drives an ambulance," she
    

volunteered. "That's why I couldn't send him one and meet him at the hospital; he's terrified of being recaptured." 
    
    
         Both Homicide officers shuddered.
         "God, who wouldn't be?"  Kasimov made the rhetorical
    

statement. "It's a damn miracle he got away. Any clue about how?" 

She shook her head. "No. Just that he did, and that he's hurt. He's almost certainly in shock." She glanced around at the dark alleys between almost every pair of buildings. "If he's gone down in one of these alleys, we may not find him till morning, and that will be too late. It's too cold." 

The two cops traded glances. Scully did not notice: she was still intent on checking every pedestrian on the street. 

"Dana?" Caffrey's voice pulled her attention back to him. "Do you have a police band radio?" 
    
    
         She shook her head.  "No."
         "Cell phone?"
         "Of course."
         Kasimov reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled
    

out one of his business cards. He handed it to her. "Call us; we'll leave the line open, and if you need backup, or if we find him, we'll be able to reach each other." 
    
    
         "Good idea.  Thanks, guys."
         "Any time, Dana."
         The call completed, they separated to keep looking.
    

After a few minutes of frustration because she could not see down those alleys, she opened all the car's windows. She shivered as the cool autumn air rushed in, and then leaned her head out the window. 
    
    
         "Mulder!   Mulllllderrrrrrrrrr!"
         She paused to listen, shivering a little, still.  She had
    

only called his name like this once before with such open desperation: when she had stood above the buried boxcar in the canyon in New Mexico, refusing to believe that her partner was really dead. 

It had been so close, that time... \\\God, Albert, what am I going to do? You're not here to pull him back from the Other Side again!\\\ But this time she had not heard his voice in her dreams, at all. 
    
    
         "Mulllllderrrrrrrrrr!"
         This time there was no answer.  She refused to
    

consider that they could come this close to rescuing him, to getting him back safe and sound, and fail. He was here, and she was going to find him. 

She was cruising at idle, her foot hovering over the brake pedal, her four-way emergency flashers on, her eyes flickering rapidly from the array of alleys and sidewalk ahead of her and the rearview mirrors. 

It was a movement in the rearview mirror that caught her attention. A man wearing nothing but dark-colored pants stumbled across the sidewalk to lean heavily on a street light. He lifted his face a little, and the light revealed him. 
    
    
         It was Mulder.
         Scully slammed on her brakes and shoved the gear
    

shift into reverse. With her other hand she grabbed the cell phone. 
    
    
         "I found him.  N-for-Nancy and 65th.  Hurry."
         She did not wait to hear their acknowledgment.  Traffic
    

was too heavy for her to back up, so she threw the car into park, and got out, automatically grabbing keys and cell phone, because all her attention was on her partner, who was sliding down the pole to his knees. 
    
    
         "...Dana...?"  Even his voice was faint.
         "Of course it's me."
         He looked up, and his expression visibly lightened as
    he saw her.  "Scully..."
         "I'm here."  She crouched beside him, but was afraid to
    

touch him. "C'mon. Get in the car, Mulder. I want to take you to a hospital..." 
    
    
         "No ambulance!" he flared.
         "No ambulance," she agreed at once. "My car.  I drive.  I
    stay with you every second."
         He wilted with relief.  "I thought I heard your voice," he
    

admitted. "But I wasn't sure I wasn't hallucinating. He's out here searching for me, Scully. He almost got me back once before I called you, and once right afterwards. I hid just in time." 

"I'm armed, and I've got backup," she assured him. "DC PD has every available car out here; didn't you see them?" 

He nodded tiredly, and let her help him stand. "Yeah. But the ones I saw were one-man cars... If he can be an ambulance driver, why can't he be a cop? I couldn't risk it." His voice was shaking. 

"Okay. Pretty good logic for someone as toasted as you," she teased, though her heart ached as her experienced eyes began to catalog the injuries visible on his blood-streaked body. 

He stumbled, and went to his knees again because she was not strong enough to hold him up. He stayed down, rocking a little, his breath coming in desperate panting. 
    
    
         "Mulder?!"
         He was fighting not to voice his pain, and did not
    answer her.
         Before she could quiz him any further, an ambulance
    

pulled up at the curb alongside them. He did not notice at once; his eyes were closed as he fought to breathe past the pain. 

"Hey, lady," the ambulance driver called. "Is that guy hurt? You need a ride to the ER? I've got an EMT in the back..." 

Scully's first response was gratitude that medical support was present. But Mulder lunged to his feet with a cry. 
    
    
         "No, you bastard!  Not again!"
         Scully remembered, then, and went for her Glock.  "FBI!
    Stop right there!  You're under arrest!"
         Before she could get all the words out or bring the
    

weapon to bear, the driver floored the gas pedal, and the ambulance careened away at extremely unsafe speeds. 

Scully grabbed the cell phone. "Caffrey! The Butcher just tried to pick us up. Unmarked ambulance: the right colors but no words on it, racing north on 65th. Driver alone up front, though he stated he had an EMT in the back. White male, about six feet, heavyset Italian or Hispanic body type and complexion. No accent; pure American words and tones. Black hair cropped short, dark eyes. Wearing a white uniform that superficially resembles an EMS employee, but I didn't see any of the badges that they have on the shoulders." 

The unmarked Homicide unit raced past her, the dashboard light flashing, siren screaming. 

"Thanks, Dana," came Caffrey's voice on the phone. "Can you get Mulder to the hospital on your own?" 
    
    
         "Yeah; he's mobile enough for that.  Sic 'em, Kevin."
         "Will do, Dana."  The telephone connection was cut,
    

then, and she knew that Caffrey was on the radio, informing every cop in the DC area what had just happened. 

Mulder was standing, leaning against a mailbox, his face buried in his arms. He was under a light, and she could see the vicious and bloody lash marks that covered his back, and bleeding burns the size of her hands, blisters torn open and the loose skin charred around the edges. 
    
    
         "Oh, my God...  Mulder?  My car's right here..."
         "Where...where is he?"
         "Caffrey and Kasimov are in pursuit," she informed him
    

calmly. "They'll run him right out of the neighborhood even if they don't catch him. C'mon, Mulder. I want to take care of you, and I can't do it out here on the street." 

He resisted for a moment, looking around restlessly. "He'll double back. He's got a lair near here. 'S where I escaped from." 

"Won't he abandon that lair, since you know where it is?" 

"He's got tools, supplies that would be hard to replace. We need to get there first. Forensics needs to rake the place. I don't know his name, or anything useful." 

"You know a ton of useful," she informed him. "Get in the car, and you can navigate us back there. I'll relay everything to Kevin Caffrey; he'll pass it on to DC PD. They can handle the scut work, and Caffrey will make sure the FBI's Forensics unit gets called. You just sit down here..." 

She had been walking him to the car; she helped him get inside, and watched as he fought not to lean back; he did not want to scrape those open wounds on her upholstery; the pain was too much to face. She understood that. 
    
    
         "Sit still.  My kit's in the trunk."
         She was back in a moment, and she covered his entire
    

back with burn dressings, and then wrapped him in a Mylar space blanket to try and help him keep warm. 
    
    
         "Lean back slowly, now."
         He obeyed, and sighed with relief as he could finally
    

relax. She helped him get his seat belt buckled, and then tucked the blanket in around him. 
    
    
         "Okay?"
         "Oh, yeah...  More than okay..." he whispered.  "I haven't
    been warm enough since he grabbed me."
         She watched him settle in, watched exhaustion take
    

hold of him, and then raced around the car to get in on the driver's side, get the car started and shut the windows. She turned the heater on full-blast, and he smiled, wiggling his bare toes in the hot air flow. 
    
    
         "You know what I like..."
         +++
         They did not find the lair.  A few minutes later, when
    

Scully took advantage of a red light to turn her head and look at her partner, she found him unconscious, slumped against the seat belt. 

"Mulder!" There was no response. "Dammit!" She slammed the car into park, and reached for his throat, hunting for a pulse. She found it, eventually, but it did little to reassure her: he was definitely in shock. His heart was racing but his pulse was so faint she could barely feel it. His breathing was fast and shallow. She fumbled for the seat controls, and laid him out as flat as she could. Then she sat up, gritted her teeth, and put the car into gear again, planning her route to the nearest hospital. The completion of the hunt would have to wait. 

* * *

At eight the next morning, AD Skinner walked into the  
large conference room that was serving as headquarters for  
the Beltway Butcher Task Force.
    
    
         "Can I have your attention, please?"
         The place had been dark and subdued for four days,
    

each agent hag-ridden by unspoken dread. A newspaper article had outed the task force and their primary profiler; when Mulder had vanished, each of them had instantly feared the worst possible outcome: that he had been taken by their quarry. They had no data, yet, and the not-knowing was telling on their nerves. 

"We now have confirmation that Agent Mulder's disappearance is case-related," he began. "His car was recovered last night in Baltimore, stripped and burned. But there was a bit of butcher's string on the rear view mirror." 

There was a collective gasp of horror from the assembled agents. All the victims' cars had been found like that. 
    
    
         Skinner let them have their moment of horror.
         "At approximately the same time I was talking to
    

Baltimore PD," he interrupted their thoughts before anyone could react, "Agent Scully got a call from Mulder. He'd escaped and needed a ride." 

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then the room exploded into cheers, shouts, applause. Skinner even allowed himself a small, momentary smile as they got all the emotion out of their system. Then he dropped the file down on the desk top. 

That small sound was enough to start them getting themselves back under control. In a few moments Skinner had quiet and he continued. 

"Scully called in backup. Some of you may have heard of a wild chase through DC last night involving a private ambulance?" He saw a few nods. "That was the Butcher. While Scully was taking care of her partner, DC PD, including Detectives Caffrey and Kasimov," everyone looked around and realized that two of their members were missing, "were saturating the area. The Butcher chased Mulder, and he had two near misses before Scully arrived. The Butcher tried one more time, and Scully tried to arrest him. He fled, and the chase was on. Scully couldn't pursue; she had to get Mulder to the hospital." 

There was a moment of silence as the dread settled down over them again. They all knew that the Butcher took between six and nine days to glut his need for pain on a victim; then he would chain the man down to a flammable surface and set the building on fire. Mulder had been missing for four days. Every eye was on Skinner, and they seemed to be holding their collective breath. 

"He was systematically tortured," Skinner said flatly, "just as we've seen on the other victims. He was beaten with a rubber truncheon, causing extensive bruising and some internal bleeding; his liver and both kidneys were bruised. Cuts down his sides and along his arms and legs made with a surgical scalpel required a hundred and eighty stitches to close. 

"He was flogged, brutally, with a heavy length of chain that had been heated red hot, resulting in five broken ribs and more cuts and bruises, as well as some smaller burns. He was branded five times across his back with a metal spatula heated in a charcoal fire. Altogether, the doctor estimated that the second and third degree burns cover ten to fifteen percent of his body, mostly on his back, but also on his wrists and ankles. 

"He collapsed from hypovolemic shock and his heart stopped just as he was being removed from Agent Scully's car at the Emergency Room. He's been admitted for treatment." 

"There's a shocker," someone covered his disturbed thoughts with sarcasm. 

"Damn..." someone else breathed the word reverently. "Hurt like that, and he still managed to escape?! Damn...!" 

The sheer admiration in that tone brought nods of agreement from the other members of the force. 
    
    
         "Yeah:  damn!"
         It was Special Agent Callina Finch, SAC, who took a
    

deep breath and spoke up. "Sir? How long will Mulder be out? We need him now, more than ever!" 

Skinner spread his hands helplessly. "The doctors wouldn't commit themselves with an exact date. It depends on how he responds to treatment." He took a deep breath. "However, you have Mulder's preliminary report in your folders." 

Everyone scrambled to look, and most were shocked to find nine pages, single spaced, full of new information. 

"Mulder did this?" Finch gasped. "When, for God's sake??" 

"He dictated it to Scully while he was waiting to go into surgery," Skinner explained. "She typed it into her laptop while she was waiting for him, and e-mailed it to me from the hospital. That's all we have right now. He promised more, later; he was getting a little foggy." 
    
    
         "A little foggy?"  Finch repeated, still skimming the text.
         "Yeah; you know those pre-op relaxation shots they give
    

you?" Skinner did not smile. "He was relaxed enough that he didn't notice the pain; for a while he was totally okay. But then he started to fall asleep. You'll notice that it does get a little disjointed toward the end." 

"Doesn't matter," Finch looked up as she flipped over the last page. "We have NEVER had this much information. There's even a physical description of the Butcher in here!" 

* * *
    
    
         "Mulder, you can't!"
         Moving with exquisite care, Mulder shrugged his shirt
    

on over his bandaged body. "Doctor Schaller agreed that I can rest and drink lots of fluids at home as easily as I can here." 
    
    
         "But you aren't going home, are you?" she asked.
         "That is a rhetorical question, isn't it?"  He buttoned the
    

shirt slowly. He was doing everything slowly. The trauma specialist had warned him that everything was going to be difficult and painful for a while. His coordination was shot; that was the legacy of the electric stun gun that the Butcher had used on him, first to capture him, and, later, as the first act of torture. 

Electric shock was a familiar injury, though he tried to avoid recalling the details of his capture by David and Invisigoth's brainchild. 

\\\After all, I may very well be the only person on the planet dumb enough to have gotten himself captured, held hostage and tortured by a trailer trash computer...!\\\ 

But the tremors he was currently experiencing, and the impaired coordination, were familiar to him because of that past experience, and he knew they would fade with time, because they had faded before. 

His partner sighed. "Yeah. I know you, Mulder. I suppose you want me to drive you back to the Hoover." 

"Well, I can't drive." He held out one hand and let her see the tremor. "And I have no idea where my car is. Or my driver's license. Or my wallet. Or my keys." 

"Your car was found yesterday morning in Baltimore, stripped and burned, with the significant bit of string on the rear view mirror. It's in Impound there, awaiting Forensics, last I heard. Your keys were in it. Your wallet and your weapon were not." 
    
    
         "He's got 'em."  That was a flat, emotionless statement.
         "We figured," she nodded.  "Your weapon's been
    

posted on NCIC as stolen. There's been surveillance on your apartment, just in case he comes by looking for you." 
    
    
         He shuddered, and she flinched.
         "I'm sorry."  She moved closer, put her fingertips on the
    back of his hands.
         He slid his hands up her arms to her shoulders.  "It
    doesn't hurt that much."
         "Liar." She looked up to meet his eyes, saw the stress
    there.  "You need to rest; you're in no shape to be reporting in!"
         He shook his head.  "I'm all right.  Not a hundred
    percent, but okay.  I can do this."
         "You have to do this."  She understood but nothing
    could make her approve.
         "Yeah, I do." He straightened with visible effort. "I can't
    

go home till we catch the bastard. And he won't want to go on till he finishes with me. He's never failed before; I don't think he's going to be particularly forgiving." 

"I want you to stay here in the hospital," she protested quietly. "You need to rest, you should be under observation..." 

He grinned at her. "Like you're going to let me out of your sight? C'mon, be realistic here. There's no place safer, for both of us, than ISU's sub-basement stronghold." 

Scully sighed, knowing he had won. "Skinner moved the Task Force to the Hoover Building when you were taken--he wanted everyone under guard. But you're right as far as that goes: it's the place where you're safest from him. But who's going to protect you from yourself?" 

He threw her a small, almost shy smile. "That's your job, Scully. Debunking, rescuing, arguing, bandaging..." 

She smiled back. "Sounds like my job description's been enhanced," she observed. "Do I get a raise to cover all these extra responsibilities?" 

His smile was replaced with an expression of focused intensity. "Scully, Bill Gates couldn't afford to pay you what you're worth to me." His arms went around her in a gentle hug. 

Scully let herself melt against him, rested her cheek against his chest, relieved to hear his heart's regular beat and his body's reassuring warmth. She was afraid to hug him back for fear of hurting him, and the ever-analytical part of her brain noticed the weakness in his hands and arms, the slight sway of his body as his balance wavered. 
    
    
         "Sit down."
         "I'm all right," he resisted.
         She stepped back far enough to glare up at him.
    

"Mulder, thirty-six hours ago your heart stopped in the ER! You've been tortured for four days, and you lost a third of your body's blood supply due to internal and external bleeding! You are NOT all right!" 
    
    
         "Scully, stop it," he growled.  "I'm fine."
         "You're NOT fine," she snapped.  "You're better; you're
    

not in the same time zone as 'fine!' And the only way I'm letting you out of here is in a wheelchair, which we will take with us, and you will use!!" 
    
    
         "I can walk!"
         She took another step back and planted her fists on her
    

hips. "Mulder! You can feel how wobbly you are. Imagine how much those broken ribs will hurt when you fall." 
    
    
         "I'll be careful."
         "You know better than that.  You aren't walking
    anywhere for the next few days if the chair can get you there."
         "Scully..."  He heard the whine in his voice, and
    

grimaced. He hated it when she reduced their relationship to this. He knew she was right; he just hated the idea. 

"Mulder. I'm not relenting on this. If you want to go to the Hoover, that's the price. Or I withdraw my endorsement, and you get re-admitted." 
    
    
         "I'll sign myself out," he riposted stubbornly.
         "And walk to work?"  She refrained from smiling.
    "Besides, you can't get in without an escort; you have no ID."
         "Jaime would let me in."  He knew he was just being
    stubborn, but he was not ready to surrender, yet.
         "Jaime might," she agreed.  "But he would rat you out to
    

Skinner, and you'd end up back here under guard, or in a safe house, incommunicado. You know Skinner; he'll do it." She gentled her tone. "You want me to help you, Mulder? Then LET me!" 

There was a long stretched-out moment. Then his shoulders sagged. "All right, all right. God, you can be SUCH a hardcase...!" 

"I learned it from you," she grinned. She had tied his sneakers for him, because he could not bend over that far. She offered him his leather jacket. "Here. It's windy and cold, and you're depleted. You're going to feel the cold, today." 

She had to help him get the jacket on. Then he reached out for the door frame to steady himself. 
    
    
         "Weak?  Dizzy?"
         "Yeah..." His eyes were closed.
         "This is why most people stay in the hospital when
    they're hurt!"
         But the expression he turned on her was haunted.
    

"Scully, I have to catch him. I have to stop him. He may come after me. But he may not. And, after losing a kill, he's going to be really vicious to the next victim. I've got to stop him." 
    
    
         She could not argue with that.
         +++
         She commandeered a wheelchair from the hospital, put
    it in the car, and they went to work.
         She parked in a handicap space right by the elevator in
    

the parking garage, hanging a temporary permit from the rear view mirror. Mulder climbed out and walked slowly toward the doors. 
    
    
         "Mulder."
         He turned to see her unfolding the wheelchair that she
    had taken out of the trunk.
         "Jeez, Scully!  I can stand up in an elevator!"
         She sighed as she pushed the wheelchair toward him.
    

"Mulder, you have a finite amount of energy you can divert from healing. Do you plan to use it to walk down hallways or find the Butcher?" 

Expressed that way, he could no longer argue. Carefully he lowered himself into the chair, and eased himself back. 

Scully adjusted the foot rests. "Now, behave yourself, or I'll tie your ankles down." 
    
    
         He flinched.
         Scully realized with a pang of guilt what she had said,
    

conjured the image of her partner tied down on a tabletop, struggling against the bonds as the Butcher approached with a red-hot chain swinging from his hand. "Oh, my God... I'm sorry!" 

He shivered, pulled his jacket snug, and then let go of it because the action hurt. "'S okay." 
    
    
         "No, it's not.  I'm supposed to know better than that."
         "Hey."  He reached for her hand, and she let him have it. 
    "You couldn't've known those were his exact words..."
         She was horrified.  "Oh, my God!  I'm so sorry!"
         "Don't overreact, Scully."  He wanted to smile at her, but
    

she had moved up behind him, and he could not twist around to see her. "I'm not having flashbacks; at least, not yet." His eyes went vacant. "If I do, maybe I'll get better visuals of the lair. There were a few times when it hurt so much I just blanked. It left a few holes in my memory, and I hate when that happens. I'm used to unbroken skeins of events; when there're breaks it upsets me." 

He flinched a little when gentle fingers laced through his hair. 

"Just relax, and don't think about it," she advised, pushing him forward when the elevator doors opened in front of them. "And keep your hands in-board. You can't push this thing; it'll stress your ribs. Just sit there and enjoy the ride." 
    
    
         "Yes, ma'am."
         +++
         It was just past eight-thirty on Sunday morning; there
    

was almost no one in the building. The Butcher Task Force met every morning, weekends included, at eight sharp. They would just make it before the meeting broke up. 

Scully was a little surprised at how much work it actually was to push her partner around like this. 

\\\On the other hand, he usually lets me push him around any way I want. I have to start being nicer to him. I'm the only one who ever is!\\\ 

She pulled up and stopped outside the conference room. Mulder tipped his head back so he could smile at her, albeit upside down. 
    
    
         "Thanks for the ride, honey.  What's the fare?"
         "Promise me you'll listen to me when I tell you it's time
    

to take a break for food or rest," she said at once, coming around so he could see her without straining anything. 

He considered. "All right. Promise me you'll leave the chair in the hall." 

She considered. Then she smiled. "You want to make an entrance, don't you?" 

He grinned sheepishly. "Knowing Skinner, he'll have 'em all convinced I'm dying. I think it's wishful thinking, on his part, sometimes..." 
    
    
         She chuckled.  "He doesn't want you dead, Mulder."
         "Only if he gets to do the deed himself..."
         "All right.  Hang on a minute while I lock the wheels..."
         +++
         "Any further questions?"  Skinner asked the group.
         Agent Crowell, at the back of the room, lifted a hand.
    "What's the latest word on Agent Mulder?"
         Skinner's eyes dropped to his shoes.  "Rounds are at
    

eight; when they're done, I'll get a call with an update. Last night he was listed in satisfactory condition, resting comfortably." 
    
    
         "They lied."
         Everyone stared at the figure in black leather and
    

denim who walked into the room, followed, as usual, by a smaller, red-haired, shadow. 

Skinner swallowed hard. He had not seen Mulder since he had gone to the hospital in response to Agent Grodin's phone call. He had had only a glimpse of his agent, still unconscious in surgical recovery. 

Mulder looked as if he had lost a fight with Mike Tyson in a cement mixer. 

\\\Nice analogy, Walter!\\\ he castigated himself. \\\What really happened is worse!\\\ 

Before he could actually open his mouth to say anything, someone in the back of the room began to clap his hands. In a few moments the entire task force was standing and applauding. There were no cheers, and no whistles; just quiet, dignified applause. 

Mulder had no idea how to react. He let this oh-so-very-rare! sign of peer approval wash over him, and hardly felt Skinner's hand supporting him until he started to sway, and Skinner grabbed him by the upper arm, inadvertently digging his fingertips into the freshly-stitched cut that ran from Mulder's armpit to his elbow. 

Scully moved very quickly, shoving a chair behind his knees and catching him, carefully, by the elbow on the other side. He fell into the chair, and had to close his eyes while he caught up on his breathing. 

The applause had stopped when Mulder went down; the room was dead silent. 

Skinner decided to fill in the silence and divert all the eyes that were staring at the wounded agent. 

"Agent Scully, it was my understanding that your partner was going to be hospitalized for several days. Tell me he's not out AMA." 

Scully was standing close beside him, her fingertips brushing lightly across the upturned palm of his hand. "He was released conditionally, sir." 
    
    
         "What are the conditions?"
         "That he minimize his physical activity, eat and drink a
    lot, that he rest and let himself heal."
         "Why is he here?"
         Mulder opened his eyes and glared up at his boss.
    

"Don't talk over me like I'm not here," he growled, the aggression he was trying to project a bit undermined when he had to pause for breath in the middle of the sentence. 

"And why are you here, Agent Mulder?" Skinner fixed him with an icy stare. 
    
    
         Mulder stared back defiantly.  "I work here."
         "You're in no shape--"
         "Sir.  Profiling is thinking.  I can do this.  I have to do
    this."
         Skinner heard the desperation in his agent's tone, and
    

let his own tone soften. "And you couldn't do it from the hospital?" 

"Sir. The Butcher is not a man who accepts defeat graciously. No one's ever gotten away from him before. He's either going to focus all his energy on getting to me, or he's going to go out and find someone to replace me. Possibly several someones. I want him to focus on me; I don't want innocent civilians suffering at this man's hands because he can't get those hands on me, again. But I really don't want to get taken, again, either. This is the safest place for me to be, as well as the best place from which to find him--all the resources are here." 

Skinner nodded slowly. "For once, I totally agree with you, Mulder. But you will rest, and you will eat. Agent Scully--" 

"Yes, sir." She turned to her partner. "See? I've got backup." 

Mulder let his head fall back lightly to rest against her belly. "You don't need backup, Scully; you're the toughest guy in the room." 

A ripple of amusement reminded him that they had an audience, and he straightened a little, refusing to be embarrassed. 
    
    
         She grinned faintly at him.
         "I guess we missed the morning briefing, sir," he turned
    the conversation back to the matter at hand. "Anything new?"
         "New to us; not new to you," ASAC Finch grumbled
    good-naturedly.  "Damn, Mulder--!"
         He shrugged, and a flicker of pain went across his face.
    "That's not exactly how I'd express it," he replied, "but it'll do."
         "Mulder, did you have breakfast yet?"  Skinner asked.
         Mulder sighed, knowing what was coming.  "No," he
    admitted.
         Skinner scanned the room, picked out a junior agent
    

that he knew he could trust to babble the moment he was out from under his supervisor's eyes. But not to babble too much... the kid had learned some discretion. He had a serious case of hero worship of Fox Mulder. He would talk down in the cafeteria, and the rest of the building would hear what Mulder had done. It annoyed Skinner no end that there were so many people in the building, fellow agents who should have known better, who had no respect for Agent Mulder at all. If ignorance of his accomplishments and work ethic was the issue, this might go a way toward addressing what Skinner saw as a serious issue. 
    
    
         "Agent Calvaneso."  His voice was crisp.
         "Sir?"
         "Go down to the cafeteria and bring up two
    

bacon-and-egg breakfasts and a dozen doughnuts. Get a pitcher of orange juice if they'll give it to you." 
    
    
         "Yes, sir!"
         "Chocolate doughnuts," Mulder grinned.  "Glazed sour
    cream chocolate doughnuts."
         "Yes, sir!"
         The moment the door closed, Skinner turned toward
    Scully.  "Can he have coffee?"
         She grimaced.  "It won't keep him from sleeping; he's
    

too wasted for that. I suppose small amounts won't hurt." She felt his flare of annoyance and turned on him. "You are not tanking up on caffeine, Mulder. When you're tired, you are going to go down to the lounge and sleep. And on Tuesday at three you have a check-up back at the outpatient clinic." 
    
    
         Mulder sighed.  "Remind me."
         "Don't worry.  I will."
         He grinned at her. "I know."
         Scully left Mulder alone long enough to retrieve the
    wheelchair from the hallway.
         "Mulder?  C'mon; this has got to be more comfortable,
    

and you can shove it around with your feet, rather than getting up." 

He did not respond. She could see that his eyes were not focused and frowned. "Mulder?" 

He blinked, and he was back. He made a face at her, but moved, slowly, to stand up. "I hate it when you're right, you know." 
    
    
         "I know."
         He settled into the wheelchair carefully.  "I hate to admit
    

it, but it is more comfortable than those chairs," he smiled at her. Then he turned the wheelchair, using his feet as she had suggested, grateful that he did not have to twist his body, looking for Skinner. "Sir?" 
    
    
         Skinner had been watching their by-play.  "Yes?"
         "I need a press conference ASAP.  Can you set it up?"
         +++
         "They're ready any time you are, Mulder."
         "Thanks, Mickey."
         The other agent backed out and shut the door.  So, the
    

news cameras were ready. Mulder was dressed in Scully's favorite of his suits: a charcoal grey Armani. His shirt was absolutely white, and the tie was a soft green watered silk that made his eyes look like emeralds. Scully swallowed hard. She had argued that he could not represent the FBI in his black denim and leather jacket, although she rather liked him in his casual clothing. They had sent four agents to Mulder's apartment with a list of items to bring back for him. 

They had sent four so that the Butcher would not even try to take one of them. 

Agent Braun came into the lounge. "Here's your stuff, Mulder. Anything else we can do for you?" He laid a suit bag across the desk top, and set Mulder's familiar toiletries kit beside it. 

He shook his head. "No, thanks, Hank. That's great. Thank you." 

He let Scully push him in the wheelchair down to the gym, but refused to let her into the shower room. He desperately wanted to shower, but he knew better than to risk it. Not only did he have nearly two hundred stitches on his arms and legs, he also had five large burns on his back. The very idea of standing under a shower made Mulder cringe. Much as he wanted to be clean, he was not yet ready to risk that kind of pain. 

Somehow, Scully had figured out his problem and solved it without saying a word. When they arrived at the men's locker room Mickey Bender was already there, waiting for them. Mulder studied him speculatively. 

Bender shrugged. "You can't take a shower and I don't suppose you can really move much," he explained. "I can give you a hand with the more painful stuff. Then we'll come back out here and Scully can check you over and reapply all your bandaging. That okay with you?" 
    
    
         Mulder nodded.  "Sounds like a plan, Mickey.  Thanks."
         Scully let herself relax slowly as the two men moved off
    

into the shower area. She had put a sign on the outer locker room door asking people to stay out. Mulder was as casual as any other guy about locker room etiquette; he had told her some carefully expurgated stories of his high school and college experiences. But he was still almost Victorian in the level of formality he tried to maintain toward her. She understood why; they were trying to maintain a professional relationship under the stress of a long-term and very intense friendship, a great deal of travel together and a tremendous amount of shared pain, grief, and fear as well as an equal amount of mutual dependency and trust. 

She had asked Mickey Bender to meet them down here. She had been concerned that Mulder might have ignored the warnings about getting his stitches wet: he was as fastidious as a cat about his personal hygiene and she knew he was miserable with the limitations imposed upon him by his injuries. She was even more concerned that his burns, especially, not get infected. She did not like to cause him any more pain than absolutely unavoidable, but her real worries were for his health, not his comfort. 

She could not hear the men: the shower room was at the far end of the locker room and she set her medical supplies near the entrance. She was a little uncomfortable about being in the men's locker room at all, so she was glad not to have to penetrate that inner bastion. 

When Mulder came out he was laughing and joking with Bender, but he was walking slowly and she could see lines in his face that had been carved there by pain. He was wearing boxers and a light cotton robe that he had left hanging open. She knew that was because he did not want to put any pressure on his back. Mickey Bender was similarly dressed, but his robe was snug and belted tightly. 
    
    
         "How are you doing, Mulder?" she asked softly.
         He sighed as he sat down on the bench where she
    

indicated she wanted him. "As well as can be expected. It's great to be even this clean, but you have no idea how badly I want to take a shower." 

She smiled. "Oh, I think I can imagine that. I remember listening to you whining in Raleigh; you couldn't even stand, yet, and you were demanding showers." 
    
    
         Bender looked puzzled.  "What happened in Raleigh?"
         Mulder smiled ruefully and his hand moved over the old
    

bullet scar in his thigh. "I got shot," he said carelessly. "They kept me in bed for more than two weeks, Mickey; I was ready to go stark raving mad by the time the doctors were convinced I'd done enough healing to sit up without my femoral artery exploding." 

Bender whistled soundlessly; it was pretty clear Mulder had come within a breath of dying that time. Then he chuckled reminiscently. "Reggie Perdue told me once that you started wearing designer suits after a case where the SAC sent you to the dump with the local uniforms because you were wearing a cheap suit and wouldn't mind if it got ruined." 

"That's a lie," Mulder growled, being careful not to react to the butterfly-light touch of Scully's hands on his back. "It was a Brooks Brothers suit; he was just jealous. I went in the next day wearing Armani and he stopped harassing me. He was wearing a department store suit; he'd sent me out there intentionally because I was wearing an expensive suit. The upgrade trumped him and he had to shut up." 

Scully, her hands and eyes focused on her work, was listening. She chuckled, then. "Who was it?" 
    
    
         "Joey Mattioli; Des Moines office.  Why?"
         "I want to send him a thank you note from the female
    

population of the US," she teased. "You always look good, but in Armani...? Hmmm...!" 

She was behind him so she did not see how her comment, especially the wordless part of it, affected him. Bender did, but, knowing the tightrope that they walked and the rules they skirted cautiously, he refrained from the first thing it occurred to him to say: 'bet you like him better out of the suit, right, Scully?' 

Mulder closed his eyes and forced himself to calm down. It only took a moment; he was too depleted to follow through on that impulse, anyway... 

Bender shook his head. "Well, I'm going to get dressed and get upstairs. I want to be in the audience when you get to the podium." 
    
    
         Mulder managed a grin.  "Okay; see you later."
         Bender disappeared back into the locker room to get
    

dressed out of Scully's view, and then went out the far doors. The partners were alone. 

Scully inspected all his wounds, and all the stitches, and carefully and thoroughly dried them. She reapplied the antibiotic salve, and then the bandages. It took her quite a while, because she was taking extreme care not to hurt him. 

He finished getting dressed, grateful for her business-like help with his pants and his shoes and socks. Then she tied his tie for him. She finished her ministrations by combing and blow-drying his hair. They went back upstairs in silence. When they were outside the conference room she fussed a little, straightening his tie, smoothing his hair. Finally she stepped back. 
    
    
         "There.  Knock 'em dead," she grinned.
         "Oh, yeah."  He hated the necessity of this, but he would
    

do whatever it took to catch this suspect. He stood up slowly, and gestured toward the wheelchair that was waiting near the door. "Don't let that get too far away." 

"Don't worry." She watched him walk out into the hall, to the conference room where the cameras were set up. She tried to keep herself from trembling, but it was very difficult. 

* * *

"...in conclusion, I want to warn everyone in the Capitol  
area to be wary. He chooses his victims by their cars, by their  
suits, by the Rolex on a wrist. He takes his victims by ramming  
from behind with the ambulance he drives, and hitting the  
driver with a stungun when he walks up, and the driver rolls  
down the window to exchange insurance information.

"He isn't very bright, but his technique has worked well on seventeen uninformed victims, including myself. The easiest way for you to defend yourself against him is to not drive alone. You don't want to be his next substitute for the daddy he has never managed to talk back to, much less hit back." 

When Mulder paused, the reporters called out questions. The loudest one was the one he answered. 
    
    
         "Agent Mulder, is that how he got you?"
         Mulder smiled faintly.  "Yes.  We believe that he
    

targeted me after the news reports identified me because he was trying to handicap the Task Force assigned to capture him; in fact, he has made our job tremendously more simple. I've seen his face. I could pick him out of a line-up. As soon as I match the face to a name, he's ours." 

"Agent Mulder, we understand that the Butcher maltreated you much as he did the other victims. How clear can your memory be through that much pain and, inevitably, fear?" 

Mulder grinned. That question was planted; he thought he detected Scully's skilled touch. "Doesn't matter what I felt like," he shrugged casually. "I have a photographic memory. Everything I've ever seen, in my whole life, is still accessible. I CAN'T forget anything. Believe me, I've tried." He looked around. "I guess that's all for now. We'll have updates as further information becomes available. Thank you." 

He waved casually, and walked out with his own free-swinging stride, the very image of the capable, professional Federal agent. That lasted until he was outside in the hall and the door was closed. 

He put his hands up against the wall, leaned his forearms against it, rested his forehead against the cool plaster. 
    
    
         "Mulder?  Sit down."
         As she spoke he felt the soft leather of the wheelchair's
    

seat nudge gently at the back of his legs. He sank down into the chair and let his head fall back against her body. Her hands left the handles on the back of the chair and moved up to cradle his face briefly. His eyes stayed closed but he luxuriated in the caress. 

"You need to rest. C'mon..." She let go of him, and began pushing the chair down the corridor. 

He was too exhausted to even notice when she went right by the conference center and headed for their temporary office, down past the assistant directors' offices. She pushed the chair through their office and through the connecting door to the lounge. 
    
    
         "Mulder?  Mulder...?"  He did not respond.  "Mulder?"
         He blinked at her groggily.  "Hmm?  Scully?"
         She frowned; his voice was faint, and his eyes were
    glazed.
         "C'mon, G-man.  You need to take these pills."
         He blinked, and realized that she was holding out one
    hand while her other hand held a glass.
         He reached out to accept the medication, and watched,
    

as if from afar, as his hand trembled. Scully helped him drink from the glass to wash down the tablets. The glass held cold milk, and he drank it all. He let her take his jacket off him, unfasten his tie, and open his cuffs, setting his cufflinks aside with the matching tie clip. Then she opened his belt and slid it out of the belt loops. Clumsily, for his fingers were a little numb, he unbuttoned the pants. 
    
    
         "Switch to the couch; lie down."
         He simply obeyed.  It was easier to obey than think.  He
    

lay down, very cautiously, on his left side; the two broken ribs on that side were not as painful as the three on the right. 

\\\Hmm...warmer...\\\ He realized as he felt her fingers against his chin that she had thrown a blanket over him. 

"You're safe, Mulder; you're fine. You're just exhausted. You worked too hard today. Now you take a nap." 
    
    
         "Scully...?"
         "I'll be here, Mulder.  I promise.  Go to sleep."
          Skinner stuck his head in.  "Agent Scully?"
         She looked up from her laptop.  "Sir?"
         Her boss's attention slid off her to focus on her partner.
    "Is he all right?"
         She glanced at him.  "He's asleep, sir.  The press
    

conference took every bit of energy he had. He collapsed in the hallway outside. I got his medication into him and I got him to lie down. Hopefully he'll stay asleep for some time." 

Skinner swung his attention back to her. "You didn't want him out of the hospital, did you?" 

She shook her head. "No, I didn't. But he correctly pointed out that he's safer here than he would be in the hospital. Infiltrating the Hoover Building is not something we expect the Butcher to try." 

Skinner nearly smiled. Then his attention went back to his sleeping agent. "Did you hear the conference?" 
    
    
         She nodded.  "Most of it."
         "After he left, it got wild.  Several of the noon news
    

reports included analyses by physicians speculating on the exact nature of his injuries. The cameras did pick up the gauze wrappings on both of his wrists, and the burns on his hands." 
    
    
         "The self-inflicted ones, you mean?"
         Skinner's jaw dropped.  "What?!"
         "He used the Butcher's torch -- the propane torch he
    

used to ignite the charcoal, that he had been threatening Mulder with -- to burn his ropes off." Scully lifted her eyes up to Skinner's. 

The Assistant Director was stunned. "I thought he was phobic about fire." 
    
    
         "He is."
         Skinner reacted as if he had been sandbagged.  "Oh,
    my God."
         "Exactly."
         "Is he really all right?"
         "I hope he will be."  She let her eyes drift to study her
    

partner's still form. "He's expecting post-traumatic stress reactions. He's even counting on the flashbacks, hoping they will fill in places where his much-vaunted memory has failed him: places where, as he put it, it just hurt too damned much, and he blanked." 

Skinner shuddered from head to foot. He had his own nightmares, and he had suffered from flashbacks and other symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, himself. But all his nightmares had been based on combat scenarios: times and places when he had been free and armed, capable, at least, of trying to defend himself. Mulder had been a prisoner, all too aware of his fate once the identity of his captor had become clear. Yet he had held off his own fear -- an uncontrollable phobia -- to free himself and escape. 

"You should know," he said then, his voice harsh as he fought to suppress his own distress, "that I'm recommending him for the Medal of Valor. This is well above and beyond the call of duty..." He thought he saw pleasure in her eyes, but he could not be sure. 

"He won't see it that way, sir," was her answer. "He believes that he is just doing what he is supposed to and is expected to do. He was assigned to profile and assist in the capture of the Beltway Butcher. And he will do that." 

"We don't expect twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, crawl-out-of-the-hospital-to-the-office dedication, Agent Scully." 

She shrugged. "It's all or nothing; Mulder doesn't do things halfway." 
    
    
         "I've noticed that..."
         They both smiled, then, and cast worried looks at the
    

subject of their discussion, who was lying half on his side, half on his stomach, his left arm dangling off the edge of the couch, sleeping so hard it seemed unlikely he would notice if a bomb went off in the room. 

"Stay with him, Scully," Skinner said finally. "That's your assignment: to take care of him. Anything else is secondary to that. You're his bodyguard, too; we don't think the Butcher will try to get in here, but you and I know that he won't put up with hiding here for long." 
    
    
         "I know.  And I'm worried about that," she admitted.
         "And if there's anything either of you needs, tell me."
         "We need a gofer," she said at once.
         "I'll assign you Calvaneso; that's the one of the reasons
    

he's on the Task Force: to be a gofer and watch how the pros work." 

Scully smiled. "Do you really want him emulating Mulder's working style, sir? He's already got hero-worship in his eyes." 

Skinner looked away, chewing on his lip. "I know. But if he gets to spend some serious time with Mulder, he'll see the pain Mulder's in. He needs that rubbed in his face: Mulder may be the best investigator in the Bureau at the current time; the pair of you have the highest solve rate in the Criminal Division. The kid has some great potential; I want him to live long enough to realize some of it. But there's a price, and I want him to see what it is before he trips over his own feet heading for a door labeled 'Hero' and gets himself killed." 
    
    
         Scully could only nod.
         +++
         Mulder slept solidly, and everyone stayed away so as
    

not to disturb him. Scully stayed in touch with the investigation via e-mail and cell phone, confident that her voice would not disturb her partner's rest. She shook him every four hours and made him take his meds, but he did not wake up for hours. When he did, awareness came slowly and reluctantly. He moved incautiously, and cried out in pain. 
    
    
         Scully was at his side instantly.  "I'm here.  It's all right--"
         She had slept in a lounge chair beside him, taking short
    

three- and four-hour naps so she could keep track of his medication schedule. She had changed her clothes and sent her gofer, young Kip Calvaneso, for the cafeteria for food that she could keep in the lounge: doughnuts, cookies, popcorn and, inevitably, several snack-size bags of unhulled sunflower seeds. 
    
    
         She put a hand on his shoulder to calm him.  "Lie still."
         Slowly, he fought his way back to consciousness. 
    "Scully...?"
         "Of course me," she smiled.  "Are you all the way
    awake?"
         "I think so."
         "Then remember you have broken ribs on BOTH sides
    before you try to move, all right?"
         He shuddered.  "There was a moment there, before I
    

woke up all the way, when I thought I was home, and it was all just a particularly detailed nightmare." 

Scully moved closer and helped him swing his feet to the floor and sit up. It concerned her that he did not resent or resist her aid. He sat still for a moment, clearly resting, then scrubbed at his face wearily with both hands. Then, moving with the same deliberation of movement that he had shown yesterday, he stood up and headed toward the restrooms. 

As the door to the men's room closed behind him, she got out her cell phone, dialed her newest speed-dial code. 
    
    
         "Kip?  He's awake.  Bring up breakfast, would you?"
         "Yes, ma'am!"
         She hung up the phone with a sigh for the constant
    perkiness of the young agent.
         Mulder was taking enough time in the men's room that
    

she was beginning to worry. But then he came out, and she smiled. He had washed up and brushed his teeth; he had not shaved again, because shaving irritated the scorch marks on his face. He had admitted, eventually, the day before, that the Butcher had played games with the propane torch, aiming it at his eyes, playing the flame along his jaw, just to elicit Mulder's phobic reaction. The minor burns from that were still visible. It was his own struggles against his bonds that had caused the rope burns that marred his wrists and throat. The day's-worth of stubble made him look rakish and dangerous, and Scully had to swallow hard to suppress the stab of longing she felt for him. 

"How do you feel, Mulder?" she asked, standing up and reaching for his prescriptions. 
    
    
         "Swell," he grumbled.  "Stiff."
         "Are your wounds stiffening, or is it the muscles
    underneath?"
         "Both."  He sank carefully onto the couch again, letting
    his head fall back, closing his eyes.  "How long did I sleep?"
         "Eighteen hours."
         He lifted his head and opened his eyes.  "That explains
    

that. And I'm not even going to bother asking why you let me sleep that long." 

"It's 7:00 Monday morning, Mulder; Kip is bringing up a meal. You've got an hour to get yourself put together before the morning briefing." 
    
    
         "Did anyone find the lair, yet?"
         She had to shake her head.  "No, not as far as I know.  I
    expect that if they had, I would have been told."
         +++
         After breakfast, after the morning briefing-- which had
    

been singularly frustrating for everyone, since there was no new information-- Mulder sat in the conference room, going through all the photos of all the suspects, looking for the man whose face he knew so well, now. He did not find it. He started on DC PD's mug books, sent over at Scully's request while he slept. 

Scully started calling up violent and sex crime arrest records on NCIC, filtering them for the man she saw driving the ambulance, and then forwarding them to him to be checked. 
    
    
         "Mulder?"
         "Hmmm?"  He did not look up from his work.
         "Lunch time, Mulder."
         "Leave it here," he muttered, clearing a space on his
    desk, but not looking up from his work.
         "Mulder!"
         Startled by her sudden vehemence, he looked up. 
    "What?"
         "Get up, Mulder."  She was standing only a few yards
    away, her fists on her hipbones.
         He frowned, confused. "Why?"
         "Because you've been hunched over that desk for four
    

hours. It's time for your meds, and lunch, and for you to stretch out a little. You were complaining of stiffness this morning. It's only going to get worse if you don't move around." 

"You don't want me to walk," he pointed out, still puzzled. 

"I don't want you to walk far," she agreed. "How about a wheelchair ride down to the cafeteria? We'll leave the chair in the hall, and you can walk your own tray to a table." 
    
    
         He paused to consider.  "What's the hot lunch, today?"
         "Chili," she grinned.
         He grinned back at her.  "Sold!"
         "I thought so."
         +++
         "Yo!  Rad!  You white bread mutha!  Rad!!"
         The voice punched through the crowd noise in the
    

Hoover Building's sixth floor employee cafeteria like a searchlight through the night sky. Everyone turned to look at the tall, lean African-American man wearing black jeans and a colorful dashiki-style shirt with a visitor's badge. He was walking purposefully through the crowd, and the people separated to let him through. Each man was relieved when the stranger went by without noticing him. 

The place went dead silent when the big man swept Fox Mulder up into a bear hug. 
    
    
         "Been a long time, Rad!"
         Dana Scully very calmly set the end of the barrel of her
    gun against the skin underneath the man's left ear.
         The big man froze.
         "Let go of him.  Now."
         The big man let go.  Mulder staggered, fell into the
    

nearest chair, and collapsed down on the table, his face buried in his arms. 

Scully spared a glance at her partner, keeping a portion of her attention on her prisoner every moment. 
    
    
         "Mulder?  You okay?"
         There was no answer.
         "Mulder...?!"
         Bender moved up and efficiently cuffed the strange
    man's hands behind him.
         "I've got him, Agent Scully."
         She nodded her thanks, holstered her weapon, and
    

hurried to her partner's side, where she bent over him, her hands infinitely gentle on his shoulders. 
    
    
         "Mulder, are you all right?"
         She saw him surreptitiously wiping tears of pain off his
    

face onto his shirt's cuff, and relaxed a little. She took a step back when he slowly straightened in the rigid cafeteria chair, and moved forward a little so his back would not come in contact with it. 
    
    
         "Yeah," he spoke faintly.  "I'm okay."
         "You're sure?  Can you breathe all right?"
         He straightened a little more, carefully flexing his body. 
    "Yeah.  Nothing's shifted.  I'm okay."
         She shivered, and ran one finger across the back of his
    hand.
         Finally he lifted his head and faced her.  He managed a
    smile, though it was shaky.
         She could see that his eyes were still clouded with pain,
    but neither of them put it into words.
         Then Mulder turned to face the prisoner Agent Bender
    

was holding. "So, Sky, is that how you always greet old friends?" he asked mildly. 

The dashiki rippled as the man shrugged, wincing when he tugged on the steel cuffs. "Hellation, Rad, what's goin' on, here? What the hell have you done to yourself this time?" 

Mulder's eyes focused more clearly, and only then did he realize that the man he had called Sky was handcuffed. He grinned, and looked over at Agent Bender. 
    
    
         "Mickey, thanks, but you can let him go."
         "But, Mulder--!"
         "Honestly, Mickey.  He didn't come here to hurt anyone.
    

We're old friends. He just got carried away with the excitement of the moment." 
    
    
         "You're sure?"  Bender hesitated.
         "Sky?"
         "Honest, I just wanted to say hello," the big man
    nodded. "I'm sorry if I upset y'all."
         Bender shrugged, unlocked the cuffs and removed
    them.
         "Thanks, Mickey."
         "Any time, Mulder.  Any time."
         Mulder looked up at the stranger, and smiled.  "Sky,
    

meet my partner, Agent Dana Scully, and Agent Mickey Bender of VCS. Guys, this is Jerome Duwayne Crawford, JD to most people, and 'Sky' to his old classmates from Quantico." 

"Pleased to meet you both," Crawford said earnestly. "And sorry. Damn, Mulder, what did I do?" 

Mulder closed his eyes and shook his head once. "Not your fault, Sky." 

"C'mon, Mulder," Scully spoke up again, then. "Let's get you back to the office. I want you lying down for a while." 

It was a mark of how much pain he was in that he only grinned wickedly at her, but said nothing, even when he saw that somehow she had gone out into the hallway and retrieved his wheelchair, and now expected him to use it. 

"C'mon, Sky." Mulder stood up slowly, and wavered. He caught himself on the table with one hand, and straightened slowly. Bender walked around Scully to Mulder's other side. Mulder silently allowed Bender to help him sit down. Scully let Bender push the chair as they left. 
    
    
         The crowd parted respectfully to let them through.
         In the elevator bay, Mulder found the energy to smile up
    at the VCS agent.
         "Thanks, Mickey.  Go finish your lunch.  I'll see you in the
    office later."
         "Shouldn't you go home, Mulder?" Bender asked
    

worriedly, as he yielded his place to Scully. "You don't have to be here, at all, you know. You are entitled to time off." 

Mulder leaned his head backward against the familiar comfort of Scully's body, and closed his eyes. "No," he said very quietly. "I have to catch him. I'll be back upstairs in a little while." 

Bender and Scully traded eloquent expressions. When the elevator arrived, Mulder did not move when Scully pushed the wheelchair aboard. He did not squander his waning energy by doing anything. He just sat there, his eyes closed, his hands limp in his lap, his head resting back against Scully's body as he had become accustomed to doing. 
    
    
         "Are you all right?" she asked him.
         "Yeah."  But his expression betrayed his pain.
         The elevator doors tried to slam shut on Crawford and
    

Scully did nothing to stop them. He had to put out a hand to catch them. His hand was nearly pinned, but then the doors bounced apart, and he got inside. 

Scully glared at him, but said nothing as she let go of Mulder with one hand to push the button for the third floor. 

Crawford's eyes widened. The third floor was Administration; only the bosses had offices on three. But he said nothing. 

The ride was silent. The elevator music was enough to hide the tiny aspirated moans that were escaping from between Mulder's clenched teeth. But when the elevator stopped, the little jerk made him cry out. 
    
    
         "Mulder?"
         But he was going limp in the wheelchair.  Scully
    

grabbed and managed to keep him from slipping out of the chair, but she could not lift him. She was trapped; if she let go, Mulder would slide to the floor, and with all the broken ribs he had, she could not allow that. 
    
    
         "Agent Scully?"
         She glared at Crawford as he moved up to stand
    beside her.  "What?"
         "Let me take him."
         "No."
         "Please?  It's obvious he needs you; don't risk hurting
    

yourself trying to shut me out. I'm already punished. Let me make amends." 

It took her only a moment to realize that she had no choice. Crawford could carry him; Crawford looked like he weighed more than the two of them put together. 
    
    
         "All right.  Be careful!"
         "I promise."
         Moving very cautiously, Crawford lifted his old
    

classmate's limp form, and cradled him like a baby. Scully bit back her protest, and settled for hurrying toward the office pushing the empty wheelchair in front of her. 

Crawford followed her, unsettled at how light his old friend felt in his arms. 

The office door that Scully pushed open had a temporary sign on it: 
    
    
         BELTWAY BUTCHER TASK FORCE 
         CO:      AD W.  Skinner 
         SAC:      SA C.  Finch, VCU 
         Behavioral Science:  
         SA F. Mulder, SAC-XFD 
         Pathology:      SA D. Scully, XFD
         Investigation Team: 
         SA  M. Bender, VCU 
         SA A. Kelly, VCU 
         SA M. Chretien, Richmond 
         SA  F. Brown, Richmond 
         SA  E. Ellis, Baltimore 
         SA  C. Calvaneso, Baltimore
    
         Crawford could only wonder what 'XFD' meant, but the
    

rest of it was pretty damn clear. His buddy had significantly moved up in the world. Special Agent in Charge was always a recognition of accomplishment, and to be SAC of a permanent unit rather than of a temporary task force, was telling. 

Shoving the wheelchair out of the way to one side, Scully led him past the work stations and the array of file cabinets through another door into what was obviously a lounge. Several couches, several easy chairs, and a full service coffee alcove, with coffee, tea and hot chocolate available. 

"Put him here." She indicated a couch already equipped with two pillows and a blanket. 
    
    
         He bent to lay Mulder out flat, and she interrupted him.
         "Not on his back.  On his side.  Left side."
         That fit the way the couch was made up; he laid his
    

friend out and she helped adjust the way Mulder lay until she was satisfied he would be comfortable when he awoke. 

Still ignoring Crawford, Scully opened Mulder's shirt and unbuttoned his cuffs, moving with extreme care to keep from disturbing him. This was not unconsciousness; she believed he had just fallen asleep. She did not believe he was in any condition to be working, so every moment he slept was a good thing. 

Crawford was shocked to see the bandages on his friend's wrists. He looked a little more closely, and saw the bruises, and the rope burn on Mulder's neck, where it had been hidden by his shirt collar. 
    
    
         "My God!  What happened to him?!"
         "Do you watch the news?"
         "Mostly."
         "He escaped from the Beltway Butcher Friday evening. 
    

He'd been captured on Tuesday." Scully explained as she adjusted Mulder's pillow. 

Crawford gritted his teeth. His friend had been in the hands of a sadistic serial killer for nearly four days. He could only stare, horrified, at the myriad cuts and slashes, as well as inflamed and angry red marks that were plainly burns, on Mulder's face, throat, and forearms. He could see the bulkiness of more bandages under the fine cotton fabric of the dress shirt, and he realized that he could not see the more serious damage on Mulder's body. 
    
    
         Burns.
         "Oh, my God," Crawford whispered.  "Those are burns!
    Is he all right?  Really?  You know about his fire phobia?"
         Scully threw an appraising glance at him.  "Yes," she
    

said shortly. "He's dealt with several arsonists since we've been partners, not the least of which was a pyrokinetic who tried to kill him by luring him inside a building that had been painted entirely with accelerants." 
    
    
         "...Scully...?"
         She turned back toward her partner, and the fingers of
    one hand slipped through his hair.  "How are you doing?"
         "I'm fine."
         That was code, and Scully suppressed a sad smile.  He
    

had refused to take the painkillers before he ate lunch, she knew, because he had been planning to at least try to walk back to the office afterwards. She found the bottle of painkillers among the assortment of medications she had lined up next to the coffee machines. She shook out a pair of the caplets, and hunted in the little cooler for a carton of milk. 
    
    
         "Here.  Take these."
         He obeyed without so much as a murmur of protest;
    when he tried to hand it back to her she refused it.
         "Drink it all."
         It frightened her a little that he did so without arguing in
    

the least. She took the empty carton from him and offered him a water bottle. He took a swig and then set it on the floor beside the couch. Then he lowered himself back down onto the pillows and made himself as comfortable as possible. She thought he was going back to sleep, and was about to get rid of their guest when Mulder spoke. 

"So, Sky; is DEA boring you? Come to get your old job back? You'd stand a better chance of getting through the interview if you'd review the dress code." His eyes were a little unfocused, and his voice was faint, but his words were clear. 

Crawford chuckled, and then startled Scully by dropping to sit cross-legged on the floor beside Mulder. 

"No, I do a lot of undercover infiltration work; I haven't worn a suit to work in years. I'm not sure I even own one, right now." 
    
    
         "Lucky..."
         "Clothes horse."
         "Wild man."
         Crawford grinned.  "I'm here to testify in budget
    

hearings. We need money to fight drug cartels that make a million dollars a minute, 24/7, all tax free. But the bean counters here in DC want us to account for every paper clip." His smile faded. "Why aren't you in a hospital, Rad? Seems like you should be." 

Mulder made a face. "Scully's a doctor; she can keep me running..." 

"You can barely walk, Rad. What's so important that you can't take a couple of days of sick leave? If I know you, you've got months saved up." 

Mulder let his eyes close; he was tired, and the freshened medication was making sleep very tempting. When he spoke he did not bother to open them. "I'm profiling this case, Sky. Usually I have to work from crime scenes and victims' remains. This time I'm a victim, myself. I saw him, I could pick him out of a line-up. He even explained parts of his ritual to me." 

Neither listener had to be told that he had been both student and teaching tool at the same time. 
    
    
         "I have to catch him."
         That toneless statement was eloquent and Crawford
    swallowed hard.
         "This lunatic has captured, tortured and murdered
    

sixteen men in power suits in twenty weeks," he said very softly. "How'd you get away?" 

Mulder blinked at him sleepily, and faked a careless shrug. "I freaked completely when he came at me with a propane torch. He decided I wasn't worth cuffing. I burned through the ropes while he was napping, and got the hell out of there." 
    
    
         Crawford grinned, nodded approvingly.  "Good man."
         "Gutless, craven man," Mulder corrected him bitterly. "I
    

should've arrested him, then. But all I could think about was getting away from him." 

"Rad, you can hardly handle yourself," Crawford's tone was gentle. "If you'd tried to bust him, chances are he'd've just taken you prisoner, again. And then everything you'd learned about him would've been lost." 

"If he'd been in custody, it wouldn't've mattered," Mulder growled. 

"Sure it would." Crawford shook a finger at him. "If you'd busted him, and he'd taken the Fifth, the most you'd've been likely to get a conviction on would have been Kidnapping and Assault First on a Federal Officer. His lawyer would claim that all similarities between your guy and the Beltway Butcher were coincidental or your guy was intentionally copycatting. With a good arrest by the task force, based on a solid profile from you, plus real physical and forensic evidence, you'll take him down as a serial killer. Isn't that what you want?" 
    
    
         "Well... yeah..."
         "Rad.  Stop it.  You aren't God; you aren't even the Holy
    

Ghost! You're just Spooky Mulder, and you can't save everybody. You can only do so much." 

Mulder stretched carefully, a faint smile slowly spreading across his face. "God, I've missed you, Sky. Are you happy at DEA?" 

"I have been," Crawford admitted. "If they try to kick me up to Admin I won't be. You seem to be doing all right, here. Your own division? Must be nice. But what does XFD stand for?" 

"So, Mulder, when are you going to explain?" Scully changed the subject. 
    
    
         He frowned at her, puzzled.  "Explain what?"
         "Why your friend calls you Rad and hugs you hard
    enough to displace broken ribs."
         "Not that hard; the ribs are fine, Scully.  They're no
    worse, anyway."
         "Okay," she conceded the point.  "'Rad?'"
         Crawford grinned.  "Fox Mulder.  F. M.  FM Radio. 
    Radio. Rad.  Radical, sometimes."
         "A lot of the time," Scully threw her partner a merry
    

smile, which he returned. Then her expression cooled a little as she studied the bigger man. "'Sky?'" 

"Skyhook," Mulder answered. "He can't do a slam dunk to save his life, but he can do a lay-up that looks like he has wings and gravity doesn't apply to him." 

"Basketball," Scully shook her head wearily. "I should have figured. It's about as much fun to watch as tennis or ping-pong..." 

Crawford smiled slowly. "What's your favorite spectator sport, Agent Scully?" 

"Football," she grinned. "Big muscular men wearing tight spandex pants, running around and sweating." 

"Ooo, Scully," Mulder smiled tiredly. "You're turning me on." 

"Big sweaty men in spandex turn you on, Mulder?" she grinned at him. "That explains a lot..." 
    
    
         Mulder stuck his tongue out at her.
         Scully grinned.
         He grinned back.
         Her smile changed from merry to concerned.  "Relax,
    Mulder. You're supposed to be sleeping."
         His smile faded away.  "I'm not going to sleep, Scully.
    There's too much to do..."
         "So?  Profiling is mostly thinking.  You lie there with your
    

eyes closed and think. You talk; I type. We get it done without you collapsing and spending the next four days in the hospital on various IVs and total sedation." 

Mulder stared at her for a moment, but he knew she was serious; he'd been indulged so far because they both knew that he was the best chance law enforcement had to identify and locate the Beltway Butcher. But if he abused the opportunity by abusing his body further, she would play her trump card and have him hospitalized. She could do it, and she would, and Skinner would back her up. 
    
    
         "You don't play fair, Scully."
         "All's fair in love and medicine, Mulder," she misquoted,
    her eyes twinkling at him.
         Mulder threw a glance at his friend.  "See what I have to
    put up with?" he pretended to whine.
         Crawford folded his arms across his chest and grinned.
    "You love it, and you know it."
         Mulder turned his attention back toward Scully, and his
    expression softened.  "Yeah, I do."
         There was a moment of silent communion between the
    

pair, then Mulder settled back a little and closed his eyes obediently. Scully brushed the hair off his forehead. 

"So, the two of you were close at Quantico?" she asked softly. 

Crawford grinned. "Roommates. I helped him with anything that used numbers and he taught me how to lie to psychologists and fool polygraphs. He finished first in the class. I was fourth." 

Scully tried to suppress a grin. "So how'd you end up at the DEA?" 

Crawford shrugged. "I'd been in the field for four months. I was still at my First Office, working on an Organized Crime task force with Miami-Dade. They needed somebody who didn't look like a Fed to do some contact work. I grew up on mean streets in Detroit, and I could talk the talk. Once out of the awful JC Penney's suit that was all I could afford, I looked street enough. Job went well. DEA liaison to the Task Force made me an offer. It was more money, more undercover, and less Old-White-Guys office politics. I took it." 

Scully sighed softly and glanced back at Mulder, who seemed to have succumbed to the painkillers and fallen asleep. 

"Neither of us ever did a First Office assignment," she said softly. "I went right to teaching at Quantico after I graduated..." 

"...And he went to Violent Crimes, where Bill Patterson stole him and refused to give him back." Crawford studied his friend's partner for a moment, and decided there was a lot more than just partnership at work, here. \\\Jeez, what was my first clue?\\\ he grumbled to himself. \\\But this is good. Rad needs someone to care about him and take care of him, and it sure looks like she's elected herself.\\\ He nerved himself for it and spoke quietly. "Agent Scully?" 
    
    
         "Yes?"
         "What's XFD stand for?"
         "X Files Division."
         He grimaced.  "Okay.  What's an X File?"
         Scully explained that, briefly.  Then she looked
    

thoughtful. "Sky, do you think DEA would lend you back to us for a while?" 

Crawford blinked. "I dunno...maybe. Probably? I'm in between assignments. I was done testifying this morning." 

Scully blinked. "You testified in front of a Congressional sub-committee wearing that?!" 

"Sure," he shrugged. "I wanted to shake the white bread up." 
    
    
         "You've done that, I'll bet!"
         "Probably," he agreed.  Then his smile faded.  "What
    did you have in mind for me, Agent Scully?"
         She pointed toward her motionless partner.  "He needs
    a bodyguard."
         "Why does he need another?" Crawford asked quietly.
    "He's got you, doesn't he?"
         Scully pinned him with a look so intense that he nearly
    

flinched. "He does," she agreed calmly, fully aware of what she was implying. "But we aren't joined at the hip. If I get called away to Quantico, for example, to autopsy another victim he'll probably want to stay here, to keep working on his profile, to look for the perp's face." 
    
    
         "He'll be safe, here."
         She nodded.  "I know he will.  But if he gets an idea,
    

even if it's in the middle of the night, he'll go check it out alone. He won't wait for me; he prioritizes catching the UNSUB higher than his own physical safety. If you're there, you'll go with him, and he won't fit the victim profile anymore." 

"I'll call you, too." Crawford studied his sleeping friend. "He'd really go off on his own? Even hurt like this?" 
    
    
         "He's done it before," she shrugged.
         "You're his partner; that's not right."
         That was a searching question, but Scully had no
    

qualms about answering it... and she wondered how she had come to trusted this man so implicitly so soon. 

"Sick, hurt, exhausted... means nothing. He has to catch the bad guys and make the world a safer place for the weak and helpless." Scully shrugged. "He thinks he's protecting me. I'm female. He's a gentleman. No matter how hard I try to retrain him, he still tries to protect me. I think it's in his bones. He can't fight it; I've about given up trying. That's who he is, and I really don't want to change him..." 

Crawford frowned. "He does it to protect you? That's silly; you're a trained agent!" 

"He's a foot taller and seventy-five pounds heavier," she said with a wry smile. "I'm as good a shot as he is, but I can't out-run a man, or out-fight one without resorting to weaponry, and I'm not always successful. When I was kidnapped, I..." 

"You?!" Crawford stared. "That should've been on the news! How come I never heard about it?" 

"We never released it," she shrugged. "I was MIA for twelve weeks, and I have zero conscious memory of that time. I don't know who had me or exactly what they did to me. I know a couple of the results: I have a few nasty nightmares, and I need a particular sort of microchip in my neck to keep me from developing cancer." 

Crawford could only stare. "Where could you find a chip that could to that inside a human body?!" 

Scully shrugged. "He stole it for me out of a Pentagon storeroom." 

Crawford swallowed hard. "He stole it. Out of the Pentagon?! Our Pentagon?! Our military?!" 

She nodded. "Yes. Scary, huh? The old song and dance about the evils of the military-industrial complex takes on a whole new meaning when you shuffle in the wild cards of the good aliens and the bad aliens. If the human terms 'good' and 'bad' really apply to them, which is debatable." 

Crawford stared at her. "Aliens. You mean from outside the country." 

She shook her head, smiling faintly. "Outside the atmosphere. Outside the solar system, probably. We really don't know where they're from. But they seem to both have designs on our planet, and to not be omnipotent, since they need local quislings to make their plans work." 

"Is that what you do?" he asked, awestruck. "Fight those quislings?" 
    
    
         She nodded.
         "'Aliens?'" he had to ask.
         Scully shrugged.  "I'm not convinced about the aliens;
    

Mulder is. As far as fighting the conspirators, it's almost not relevant. The organization is worldwide and very well-funded. Our time is split about seventy-thirty. Seventy percent focused on this Consortium and thirty percent on other crimes against humanity, mostly serial killers and other monsters that hunt people." 
    
    
         Crawford blinked.  "'Monsters?'"
         Scully settled back in the chair near her partner's head,
    and nodded.  "Monsters. Vampires. Werewolves. Flukeman."
         Crawford was beginning to feel like a parrot.
    "'Flukeman'?"
         "Best we could figure that one out, a Russian ship was
    

out in international waters off New Jersey. The ship had been used to dispose of some of the contaminated waste from Chernobyl. One of their sailors somehow got significantly contaminated, and either jumped or was pushed overboard. He mutated, in his own form, into a human sized version of a liver fluke. He killed several people by implanting larvae in them. It was a little like the movie ALIEN," she said thoughtfully. "When the larvae were mature enough to leave the host, the expulsion killed the host. It was quite nasty, and we didn't manage to kill it; he got away. Well, half of him got away." 
    
    
         Crawford swallowed hard.  "Half?"
         "He was bisected by the hatch to the sewer line.  Mulder
    

dropped it on him when he had tried to kill the head of the local water treatment plant." 
    
    
         "So he died."
         "Possibly.  Probably.  Hopefully.  Depends on how
    

many of the attributes of the fluke he had assimilated. Flukes can regenerate amputated portions of their bodies, and it was the head end that escaped. He may be alive out there in the ocean off New Jersey." 

"Another reason to avoid the Jersey Shore," Crawford commented. He studied her intently for a moment. "You're not serious." 

Scully shrugged. "I don't care if you don't believe me. I'd show you the file, but it was lost in the fire, with over fifty years of documentation and evidence on alien encroachment and things that go 'bump' in the night." She was not going to tell this man, almost a stranger, that Mulder had electronic copies of all the files stashed safely away, with the help of the Gunmen, in two different bank safe deposit boxes. 

* * *

Scully passed her request up to Skinner, who asked the  
Director for permission and got it. The DEA had no hesitation  
about lending their Agent Crawford to the FBI for a short-term  
bodyguard detail. One of the Butcher's earlier victims had  
been a friend of the DEA's Mid-Atlantic Regional Operations  
Director. Once he knew who Crawford would be guarding, he  
gave his wholehearted and instant support.

Scully, unaware of the connection, was a little suspicious of the DEA's readiness to cooperate, and she suspected the agency might have an ulterior motive. But Mulder trusted Crawford, so she tried not to be too suspicious of the big man. 
    
    
         "Dana, relax.  He's a good guy!"
         "He was a good guy when you knew him," she
    

conceded. "You knew him for four months, twelve years ago. Pretty shaky ground, if you ask me." 

"I am asking you," Mulder pointed out. "If you feel that way, why did you request him?" 

"Because you trust him, and I want to," she admitted. "I like him. I don't want him to be a bad guy. I just have to stay aware that he may be." 

"He would never turn his coat," Mulder was sure. "He's the best." 

She studied him intently for a moment. "You profiled him? Recently?" 

Mulder nodded, and tossed her a folder. A glance told her it was Crawford's DEA dossier. "Mickey called for this when he showed up. I'm even more suspicious than you are, Scully. He's clean. His record at DEA is almost spotless, and he hasn't been lying to us. He's still the good guy who tried to teach me calculus at the Academy. He's just tougher and smarter, now." 

Scully knew that detecting falsehood like that was a skill associated with his profiler's ability to read people and grasp their motivations and goals. So she relaxed a little, and they focused on the hunt for the Beltway Butcher. 

* * *
    
    
         The nightmares started on the third night.
         They had rearranged the lounge to suit themselves, and
    

the ADs had not said a word. Two of the couches had been dragged into the far corner, where, sitting at right angles, they squared off a small private space. Scully had moved in a small table that she used as a desk, with two chairs, so they could eat there. It was not much privacy, but it was enough. The others who worked on the floor had been very polite about not using the lounge except during normal working hours. They had occasionally come in to find Mulder asleep under his partner's watchful eye, but had kept quiet enough, out of respect for what he had endured, that his sleep was not disturbed by those occasional visits. 

Mulder was sacked out on his couch, as comfortable, he had assured Scully, as he would have been at home. Scully was sleeping on the other couch, but when Mulder started whimpering in his sleep, the sound disturbed Scully who was decidedly not as comfortable as she would have been at home, snuggled in her queen-size bed under her favorite down quilt. 

Mulder was moving restlessly, deep in REM sleep, and she frowned. He was dreaming, and she was sure that was a bad thing. 

He was panting, now, gasping for breath, plainly in pain. Scully got up, knelt beside him. "Mulder, wake up..." 

She reached out to touch his shoulder, to shake him lightly. 

Mulder screamed at her touch, flinching violently from the contact. 
    
    
         "Mulder!  It's me!"
         Panting desperately, Mulder stared at Scully for a
    

moment, visibly reorienting himself. Then he wilted, burying his face in his arms. 
    
    
         "Mulder...?"
         He did not respond to her.  He was shivering, and
    

fighting to get his breathing under control, but the panic reaction had made him move without any concern for his injuries, and now he was in pain. 

* * *

Assistant Director Jana Cassidy stumbled down the  
hall. She had been out of town for a month, attending her  
grandmother's funeral and assisting her own mother in dealing  
with the legal inevitabilities of being executor of the will. Her  
plane had landed an hour ago, and she had a briefing  
scheduled in two. All she was hoping for was a functional  
coffee maker, so she could get some real caffeine into her  
system before her own division heads met with her in her  
office to update her. She had two hours, and she needed a  
shower, too...

She pushed open the door to the AD's lounge in time to hear a familiar voice moan, "God, Scully...!" 

Cassidy froze. She could see a man on the couch in the corner. His back was to her, but even in this dim light she could see that he was not wearing a shirt; his shoulders were bare. She had recognized his voice, too. 
    
    
         \\That's Fox Mulder!  What the hell is going on here?!\\
         Even as the thought became clear, Mulder threw back
    

his head. He was breathing hard, and Cassidy could see the movement in front of him, nearer the floor, that was another person; from the glimmer of red hair, that other person was Mulder's partner, Dana Scully, kneeling on the floor in front of him. 

\\\Of all the NERVE!\\\ Cassidy fumed. \\\It's bad enough that Mulder thumbs his nose at authority at every possible moment, but to turn the AD Lounge into a love nest !\\\ She stalked across the room with every intention of causing coitus interruptus with all possible distress, before writing up both agents for censure. 

But as she came around to get a better view, she was stunned into immobility. 

Mulder's body and left thigh were streaked with blood. Wide elastic bandaging wrapped around his body was stained with fresh blood. Scully was on her knees in front of him, replacing torn stitches in his thigh. He was panting from pain, not arousal. 
    
    
         "Oh, my God--!"  The words were jarred out of her.
         Mulder's eyes were closed, and he did not look at her;
    

he was trying to maintain some control over his pain. Scully looked up and glared at her. 
    
    
         "Do you mind...?"
         Assistant Director Jana Cassidy fled.
         +++
         A little while later Mulder was cleaned up and
    

re-stitched, asleep on his couch, snugly tucked in. Scully was cleaning up the medical detritus when Skinner knocked and peeked in. 
    
    
         "Scully?"
         "C'mon in, sir."
         He walked across the room cautiously.  "I understand
    you were interrupted a little while ago."
         Scully smiled faintly.  "AD Cassidy seemed somewhat
    startled..."
         "She thought the two of you were in here um..." He
    hesitated.
         "Acting inappropriately?" Scully suggested politely.
         "Yes," he nodded with undisguised relief.
         "Even if Agent Mulder and I had a relationship like that,
    

it would have been far too risky under present conditions, sir," she grinned faintly, amused at his discomfiture. "We're getting interrupted too often to have any confidence in our privacy." 

Skinner nodded slowly. "That's why you're dressed like that?" He nodded at the floor-length dark green satin robe she was wearing over matching pajamas. Her feet encased in matching slippers, she was completely covered except her hands and her face. Her business suits were more revealing. 

Scully nodded. "Yes. I refuse to sleep in my clothes, but I agree that neither Mulder nor I would be safe at home. Our connection is too commonly known; if the Butcher wanted Mulder, he could easily get to him through me. I won't risk putting that kind of stress on Mulder, now." 

"Speaking of your partner," Skinner said quietly, "how is he? Jana said she saw a lot of blood..." 

Scully blinked at the use of AD Cassidy's given name. "He's all right. He had a nightmare, and pulled out some stitches, flexed his ribs badly. He was in a lot of pain. But I gave him his medication, fixed the stitches..." She let her voice trail off as she glanced at her partner, soddenly asleep. "I sneaked a Valium tab into the handful of pills he takes. He didn't notice." 
    
    
         "So he'll be out for a while?"
         "I expect him to be stirring around lunch time."
         Skinner nodded thoughtfully.  "Why don't you take a
    

break, then, too, Scully. The two of you have been on this case 24/7 for days. You both need a break." 

Scully laughed shortly. "I can't leave him like this. Not without telling him." She wanted to add an explanation of Mulder's wounded psyche, but was suddenly uncomfortable about exposing her partner and, inevitably, herself. 

"You've been totally focused on your partner and on this case from the moment it hit the news," Skinner sighed. "Just take a break from it, Scully. If you don't want to leave, invite someone in to visit with you. Think about something else for a few hours. Clear your head. God knows it will all be here waiting for you when you get back!" 
    
    
         She studied him for a long moment.  "You're serious."
         "Absolutely."
         She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it
    again.
         "What?  C'mon, Scully..."
         "Do...do you think we could sneak my mom into the
    building past the press and then back out again?"
         Skinner squared his shoulders.  "Scully, do you think
    

you're talking to amateurs? Of course we can do that. You sit tight, here, and I'll send someone out to get her." 

She smiled at him, and he was startled to see how fragile that smile was. "Thank you, sir." 

* * *

An hour later Scully had had time to run down to the  
gym and grab a shower, wash her hair and get back up to the  
lounge. She had hurried because she did not want to be out of  
earshot of her partner if he woke up early. Dressed in dark  
grey slacks and a scarlet silk blouse, she had not yet shrugged  
on her jacket. Her nylon-encased feet were stuck into her  
slippers. She was making fresh coffee and considering what  
to ask the cafeteria to send up for breakfast when there was a  
knock on the door.
    
    
         "Dana?"
         "Mom!"
         The door opened and in a moment she was in her
    

mother's arms. Dana found herself hanging on for dear life and sobbing. It was some time before she could get herself under control enough to talk. 
    
    
         "Oh, God, Mom, I've missed you...!"
         Margaret Scully held onto her daughter and let her cry. 
    

"I've been home, sweetheart. You could have dropped by any time." 

Scully pushed herself away from her mother, glad she had not yet put on her makeup. She smiled wanly. "No, I couldn't." 
    
    
         "Is that why I'm here, now?"
         Scully frowned.  "Didn't AD Skinner explain?"
         "I haven't seen him.  An Agent Bender and an Agent
    

Franklin came to my door and asked me to accompany them here to see you and Fox. They didn't say anything about why, just that Assistant Director Skinner had sent them to ask me to come." 

* * *

Margaret Scully stayed for three hours, learning more  
than she had ever cared to know about how the FBI worked  
and how it treated her daughter. She left before Mulder woke  
up because Scully insisted.

"It's dangerous for you to be seen here, Mom. This suspect hasn't targeted a woman yet, but that could change in a heartbeat if he feels threatened or sees a way to regain his machismo by hurting Mulder again. Indirect pain would work. Please, Mom." 

Being out of her personal comfort zone, Margaret yielded and left the building, this time in the company of two different agents. 

* * *

Three days later, Scully was ready to start emulating the  
Butcher, herself, though she fantasized about targeting a few  
of the other agents on the Task Force, and several who were  
not, just because their personal quirks that were driving her  
crazy.

They were all thoroughly frustrated. Skinner was beginning to feel like a lion-tamer who'd forgotten his whip and chair. 

Mulder was doing significantly better; but he was always tired. As his body healed, his mind recovered the energy to throw the horrors of his experience back at him. He had hardly had three hours of sleep in a row since that one long eighteen hour stretch. Much to their dismay, the sound of any male voice --even Skinner's or Sky's-- was frequently enough to trigger a nightmare if he overheard it in his sleep. Only Scully's voice could wake him up out of the nightmare. He had awakened several times to find himself sobbing in her arms, whimpering his terror, with his wrists crossed as if bound. 

She had not allowed him to be embarrassed. She had, instead, sent Kip down to supplies for another couch, which she had him set up in their office, so the ADs could use their lounge, again. Mulder needed the privacy of their own office, a place where only he and Scully spent time. He was even a little wary of letting Crawford into that private space, but Sky's undisguised horror at what had been done to his friend and his staunch support had done a lot to keep Mulder on an even keel. 

The investigation was stagnated. Despite everything Mulder could rake out of his memory, nothing was enough to get an ID on the Butcher. He had not taken a new victim, and there had been no suspicious activity near Mulder's apartment. A convoy of three cars and nine agents had taken Mulder to his checkup on Wednesday at the outpatient clinic. 

Thursday, Friday and Saturday had inched by with a lot of work being attempted but without progress or success. There were no abandoned cars found with the telltale bit of butcher's string dangling from the rearview mirror. There were no missing person reports that fit the description of the Butcher's typical target. Agents with Polaroid cameras had gone through all the morgues and all the recent admissions in all the area hospitals without finding anyone who fit the description of the Butcher. 
    
    
         Even Mulder was beginning to think the unthinkable.
         Scully stared at him when he broached the topic. 
    "You're kidding, right, Mulder?"
         Crawford, equally shocked, kept quiet, watching the two
    

spar. He had learned, over the last few days, how much their discussions, sometimes mistaken for arguments, clarified the situation for everyone. 

He shrugged as he settled back on his couch in the lounge. "There hasn't been any sign of him for nearly a week, Scully. This isn't the guy I was profiling: he wouldn't have given up and he was escalating when he caught me. Something's happened to him. If we can find convincing evidence that he's dead, we could all go back to business as usual." 
    
    
         "You don't think he's run away, do you?"
         He shuddered.  "No.  I don't think he's afraid of being
    

caught. I think he's interested in maintaining his freedom, but I don't think he's capable of restraining himself from violence for much longer. He's been escalating, and my escape infuriated him." 

Scully remembered the man she had seen so briefly that night, and nodded. He had been red-faced with rage when she had drawn her weapon and attempted to arrest him. "Could he have just left town? He had your ID, so he knew you're an FBI agent, so he couldn't get beyond your jurisdiction, but maybe he was willing to get out of DC." 

"You've been keeping the entire Metro area up-to-date, haven't you?" 

"We've been involving the local FBI offices," she answered him carefully. "The local PDs are given all the advisories, but we haven't gotten anything back from most of them. And VICAP is still voluntary; they don't have to share information with us." 

Mulder looked thoughtful. "Maybe we should call around, see if anybody's found something that they aren't certain fits in, something they don't want to bother us with..." 
    
    
         Scully grinned at him.  "How very adroit, Mulder."
         He grinned back at her.  "You catch more flies with
    honey than with vinegar."
         "Good idea.  Sky can help."
         Crawford grinned.  "So can Mickey and Kip.  Let's use
    the task force office.  There's a phone bank in there."
         "Okay."  Mulder did not argue when Crawford brought
    

him his wheelchair. They went upstairs to the task force office together and started the process of checking with every police department within a hundred and fifty mile radius of DC. 

* * *

Scully paused between phone calls to stretch. She had  
been keeping watch on her partner, and she knew he was just  
about done. He was moving very slowly, and he had been  
staring blankly at his phone for several minutes, making no  
attempt to dial again.
    
    
         "Mulder?"
         He did not react.
         "Mulder."  Her voice was marginally more sharp.
         His reaction was a flinch; a small one, to be sure, but
    

definitely a flinch. All Scully's interior alarms started sounding. He looked up toward her, but his eyes were not focused. 
    
    
         "Quittin' time?" she asked gently.
         "Yeah.  Help me?"  His voice was almost inaudible.
         That got everyone's attention.  Previously he had always
    

tolerated her aid, had subtly resisted. He had never asked for help before. Crawford and Mickey Bender frowned worriedly. Kip Calvaneso was frozen in the doorway; he had just gone for fresh coffee. 

She glanced at the others. "You guys finish the calls, okay?" 

"Sure, Scully. Go take a nap, Rad." Sky sounded totally normal. 

Scully threw him a grateful glance, but Mulder did not appear to hear. He was limp in the chair, his head resting back against Scully's body as she pushed the wheelchair down the hall toward the elevators. 

Once they were alone in their own office he leaned on the right arm of the wheelchair but made no move to get up. 

Frightened, now --he had been improving, and this appeared to be a relapse-- Scully knelt in front of him so she could see his face. Her hands were on his knees. 
    
    
         "Mulder," she spoke very softly.  "What's wrong?"
         He looked down at her and shuddered, looking away.
    "I'm scared."
         She was shocked at the admission.  "Scared?  Of
    what?"
         "Of him.  I'm scared to find him, Scully.  I don't want to
    

ever see that face again." His voice was barely audible, and Scully was not reassured. 

"You'd be a fool not to be afraid of him. He nearly made you his seventeenth kill, and he hurt you very badly before you outsmarted him and escaped." 

He avoided looking at her. "What if I'm blocking out his face?" he blurted. "What if I've just passed right by his photo and never recognized him because I'm afraid to see him? He's still out there. When he kills again it will be my fault... and I don't think I can live with that..." 

She settled on the floor in front of him, and took both his hands in hers. His hands were cold, and she rubbed them until they were warm again. 

"Whatever he does, he is responsible for, not you. And I don't think your subconscious would protect you from a little fear just to protect a killer. Maybe all this silence just means that he's a little stronger than we suspected, and he's fighting the compulsion because he really, really wants to finish with you before he goes on to new victims." 

He shuddered. "You have no idea how much that terrifies me," he admitted in a low voice. 

"You aren't alone. Between me and Sky, and the rest of the team, even if he could penetrate building security, he won't get near you." 
    
    
         He was fighting back tears, and did not answer her.
         "Mulder, you were expecting Post Traumatic Stress. 
    This is it.  Accept it; you knew it was coming..."
         He crumbled, physically and emotionally, into her arms.
         Scully caught him as he half-fell out of the wheelchair to
    huddle in her lap, sobbing.
         The door opened, and Kip stuck his head in.  "Agent
    Scully, Assistant Director Skinner wants-"
         "Out!"  Scully snapped, throwing him a glare powerful
    enough to scorch him.
         He fled.
         Mulder cried himself to sleep in her arms.  She did not
    

try to move him off the thinly carpeted floor. When she was sure he was asleep, she pulled a pillow down off the couch \--she had to stretch to reach it-- and slid it under his head as she slid out from beneath him. A blanket was suddenly handed to her, and she looked up, startled, to see Skinner's solemn face. She covered Mulder where he lay, and accepted her supervisor's silent offer of a hand up off the floor. 

"When...? Oh. Kip called you, didn't he?" Scully realized. 

Skinner nodded. "He was frightened. I was just worried. Is he okay? What happened?" 

Scully walked to the back of their office. "He's too uncomfortable on the floor to sleep long, and he'll need help to get up," she explained, her voice soft. "Coffee, sir?" 
    
    
         "No, thanks.  Scully, is he okay?  What happened?"
         Scully went to her desk and tested the contents of her
    

mug: she had made a sort of cafe mocha by stirring a packet of hot cocoa mix into a cup of coffee. Unfortunately, that had been some hours before. Only after she tested it and made a face at the taste of the beverage long gone cold did she turn and face her supervisor. 

"Let's face reality here, sir," she drawled. "Fox Mulder hasn't been okay since November 27, 1973. Sometimes he can pretend he's okay with great success, but it is pretense." 

"That didn't look like pretense," Skinner observed gently. 

"No. It may have been a panic attack. Remember I told you he was expecting Post Traumatic Stress reactions?" 
    
    
         Skinner nodded grimly.  He remembered his own.
         "He has been anticipating having nightmares.  The first
    

two nights he was too tired to do much more than minimal dreaming. But he warned me that when they started they were going to be bad." She looked up and pinned Skinner with her eyes. "He underestimated that a bit." 

Skinner shuddered. He knew that she was sleeping here in the building, unable to leave Mulder alone. Crawford was staying at a hotel only a half mile away, and only leaving when ordered. Skinner had caught him sleeping in chairs in the conference room twice. "I thought Mulder was napping more. Catching up?" 

She nodded. "I knew it would surface during waking hours. It was only a matter of time. The self-recrimination and guilt just got the better of him." 

Skinner was floored. "Guilt? Recrimination?! For what, for God's sake? He's--" 

"Shh!" she snarled, and Skinner backed down. Scully kept going. "He's so scared of being that man's victim again that he's afraid his subconscious might let him bypass the guy's ID photo because the man's face is so much a reminder of what he suffered." 

Skinner opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. "Is that possible?" he asked finally. 

Scully shrugged, put down her coffee, and hugged herself. "He thinks so, and he's the psychologist. But I don't think fear is enough of a motivator. Guilt is stronger in Mulder. I don't think he would, even subconsciously, protect himself at someone else's expense." 

Slowly, Skinner nodded. "I've seen the self-destructive side of Mulder's personality before. And he's always had more guts than brains. I think you're right." 

"Well, right now, he's scared to death," Scully pointed out. "He thinks that's dominant, right now, and he hates it, and he's ashamed of it." 

"Everyone's ashamed of being afraid," he reminded her. 

"He knows he's not like anyone else. He just doesn't always see that as an asset." 

"That's our failing, not his," Skinner said softly. "We have the responsibility to show him how much we value his presence in our lives." 

Scully stared at him. Skinner squirmed, a little uncomfortable under her steady stare. They both heard the timid knock on the office door, and Agent Calvaneso's hesitant question. 
    
    
         "Agent Scully?  Are you here?"
         "Yes, Kip what is it?"
         The young man entered hesitantly, as if expecting her to
    

bite his head off again. "Have you seen the AD?" Then he saw Skinner standing up. "Sir. They've found another body." 

On the floor, Mulder moved, and was immediately the center of everyone's attention. He sat up with some visible difficulty, and blinked away sleep. "Let's go--" he sighed as he fought to stand up. 

Scully planted herself between him and the door and glared down at him. "Sit back down, Mulder! You're not going anywhere." 
    
    
         He stared up at her.  "Scully..."
         "You are not going out there, Mulder," she repeated.
    "You're wounded, you're exhausted..."
         "Scully...!"
         "I'm not letting you go out there.  Forget it.  You can work
    from photographs.  You're staying here, where you'll be safe!"
         He took a deep breath and marshaled his arguments. 
    "I don't want anyone dying in my place," he protested quietly.
         "I don't want anyone dying," she growled at him.  "But if
    anyone gets put at risk, it will not be you!"
         Mulder looked to their supervisor for back-up.
         Skinner shook his head.  "Forget it, Mulder.  We aren't
    

risking your life for something as trivial as a seventeenth body." 
    
    
         "A dead person is never trivial!" Mulder spat.
         "Agent Mulder, there is no valid reason for you to
    

examine that crime scene in person," Skinner said flatly. "I'll get you a satellite uplink so you can have live remote feed from the scene. You can direct the agents on-scene as you will; you will have the digital video and stills to study after the fact. You are far too valuable to the Bureau for us to risk your life on such a low-priority exercise." He held up his hand to forestall Mulder's heated protest. "Stop. You are correct; each person's life is infinitely valuable. I do not want to de-value this latest victim. But neither will I de-value your life. We will keep you safe, Mulder, because if we lose you, the murderer goes on, and more people die." 

Mulder was shocked. No one had ever told him, up front and with authority, that the Bureau really valued him for his contributions to the public good. He knew he had been used to improve the Bureau's public image, on occasion, but this was different. Rendered speechless, he could only stare as Skinner ordered Scully to stay with him and left to take command of the crime scene himself. 

* * *

It was hours later when a commotion out in the hall  
disturbed Mulder out of a fitful sleep.
    
    
         "What the--?"
         Scully, who had been curled up in the easy chair beside
    

him, sat up tiredly. The noise had awakened her, too. "I don't know." 

The argument out in the hall got louder, and the partners recognized Skinner's voice. The other voice was less familiar. 
    
    
         "Damn it, sir, he deserves to know!"
         "He doesn't need to know this," Skinner growled. 
    

"Don't you think Mulder's been through enough? Cut the man a little slack, here...!" 

The other voice came right back. "He deserves to know, and you know it. He's--" 
    
    
         "He's awake!" Mulder raised his voice.
         There was silence in the hall for a moment.  Then the
    door opened, and Skinner leaned in.  "Mulder?"
         "Yes."
         "Why are you awake?"
         "Because people are arguing loudly and talking about
    

keeping something of some significance from me," Mulder growled, refusing to yield to his supervisor's glare. 

Skinner looked away. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to tell you..." 
    
    
         "Tell me what?"
         The other man stepped forward, then.  "I'm Sandy
    

Kelly," he introduced himself. "Mickey Bender's partner. We supervised the crime scene investigation of the latest body." 
    
    
         Mulder nodded.  "All right.  Cut to the chase."
         "There was a note pinned to the body with your badge,"
    Kelly said quietly.
         Mulder swallowed.  The Butcher's victims were all
    

naked when found, so the badge had to have been driven into flesh. "Go on." 

"It greeted you by name, and warned that no one you know is safe." 

Mulder fought back the guilt and terror that swept through him. "Any ID on the body?" 

Kelly had to shrug. "Not yet. Fingerprints and dental records pending." 

"There's nobody you know on the missing list, Mulder," Skinner reminded him. "I put guards on the families of all Task Force and ISU agents, everyone in the Coroner's Office, and on your mother and Mrs. Scully. Did I miss anyone you want covered?" 

Mulder wilted back against the couch, then bent and scrubbed at his face. "I'll let you know," he said calmly, his voice low and rusty. "I was dreaming of a woman screaming for her baby. Now I'm scared." 

Kelly stared at him. "Mickey and his wife Lauren had a baby three weeks ago." 
    
    
         Skinner was reaching for his phone when it rang.
         +++
         Mulder was in the Task Force's main office, studying his
    

relationships board, pacing back and forth, full of nervous energy. Mickey Bender's wife Lauren and newborn daughter Alia were missing; their FBI bodyguards were dead, stunned from behind and their throats slit. 

Mulder would not allow Mickey to be excluded from the action. Scully had given him a sedative when he could not stop crying, and they let him sleep it off on one of the couches in the lounge. 

"I don't think Lauren and the baby are in much danger right now," he announced to the room in general. "Killing women isn't what he does." 

"Then why did he take her?" Scully played Devil's Advocate, since no one else in the room had the nerve to address 'Spooky' Mulder under these circumstances. 

He stopped pacing to face her. "He's going to want to trade her and the baby for me." 
    
    
         "Not likely!" Skinner growled.
         Mulder glanced at him.  "Two innocent civilians, one a
    newborn?  We don't have a choice."
         Scully swallowed hard; she could only agree, but the
    

thought was horrifying. "So how do we arrange this so he doesn't kill you this time?" 

Mulder smiled slowly, and Skinner shivered. It was not an ordinary smile: there was something about it that chilled him to the bone. He watched as Mulder picked up the nearest phone and dialed for an outside line. 
    
    
         "Hi.  It's me.  Turn off the tape."
         Skinner and Scully stared at Mulder, surprised.  When
    

Skinner glanced at Scully for an explanation, she shrugged, her smile widening as she began to speculate. 
    
    
         "I believe you've met Mulder's friends the Gunmen?"
         Skinner nodded shortly.  "Why, though?  Why now?"
         Before Scully could reply, her cell phone trilled.
    Frowning, she pulled it out.  "Scully."
         "Ah, Agent Scully," an unfamiliar voice purred in her
    ear.  "Let me speak to Agent Mulder, please."
         A thrill of terror went through her.  This was the voice of
    the ambulance driver; the voice of the Butcher, himself.
         "Agent Mulder's on another line," she said calmly.  "Can
    I help you?"
         "No, I must speak to Agent Mulder," the voice lost its
    affability abruptly.
         "He's not available at the moment.  Would you like to
    leave me your number?  He'll be able to call you back shortly."
         "No, he won't," the voice snarled.  "I'll be busy killing
    Lauren Bender.  Now put him on the phone!"
         Scully kept her composure with an effort.  "I believe
    

Agent Mulder is free, now. Just a moment." She held the phone against her body and faced her partner. 

He had heard most of her side of the conversation and he was frowning; he did not like the tension he could see in her. He started toward her. "Scully?" 
    
    
         'It's him,' she mouthed the words.
         Mulder understood at once.  "Hang on a moment, Fro',"
    

he said into the phone he held. Then he set it down and reached for the cell she held. "Mulder," he said cheerfully. 

Skinner and Scully watched as Mulder listened. He flinched at the first words spoken, but his back stayed straight and his voice did not waver when he replied. Mulder was careful not to antagonize the man because he had Mrs. Bender and the baby in his power. 

"Okay," he said finally. "I'll be there." He pushed END and let himself sag against the wall for a moment. 

"Mulder?" That was Skinner; Scully had not bothered to speak, but was standing close beside her partner, her hand featherlight on his. 

Mulder took a deep breath and forced himself to straighten up. 

"Surprise; yes, that was our suspect," he said calmly. "He wants to trade Lauren Bender and the baby for me." 

Skinner nodded warily. "As you predicted. Where and when?" 

"10758 Maplewood Road, Bellington, Virginia, 7pm tonight." 
    
    
         Skinner nodded thoughtfully.  "I'm calling HRT."
         Mulder let himself relax a little.  The Hostage Rescue
    

Team, also sometimes called the Hostile Response Team, was the FBI's SWAT unit, ninety-one of the toughest men in law enforcement. 
    
    
         "Can they get there in time?" Scully asked.
         Mulder glanced at his wrist and made a face.  "Dammit,
    the bastard took my watch, too!"
         Sky Crawford, who had showed up while Mulder was on
    

the phone with the Butcher and had kept quiet, chuckled. "So we'll add another count of robbery when we book him," he drawled. "It's not four o'clock, yet, but where's that town? I never heard of it." 

Kip Calvaneso looked up from his computer. "Driving directions are complicated, sir, and this site estimates that the trip will take ninety-five minutes from here. That doesn't leave us much time." 

Mulder picked up the office phone again. "Fro', how fast can you get here?" He listened. Then he went to the printer and scanned quickly through the travel directions that Calvaneso had printed out. "Meet us at County Road 237 and Simpson, just over the Virginia State line. Sixty to sixty-five minutes." 

He hung up and stretched carefully. Then he turned toward Scully. "Let's get this show on the road." 
    
    
         Scully did not move.  She was frozen, staring at him.
         "Scully, it'll be all right; I've got a plan."
         She shuddered, cold to the bone.
         +++
         County Road 237 was a two-lane blacktop, the kind of
    

old trucking route that predated the interstate highway system and survived because it went through small towns that the interstates had bypassed. The intersection of Simpson and 237 was just outside Loudon County, where the hostage exchange was scheduled. It was marked by a tractor and farm equipment dealer, a boarded-up fruit stand, a cornfield and a cow pasture. 

The quintet of FBI fleet sedans parked neatly along the edge of the fruit stand's lot looked only slightly less out of place than the battered old Ford Econoline van that the Gunmen had driven. 

Inside the van, Frohike and Langly were working fast and efficiently with Jewelianna Olivencia of Technical Support. Mulder was slowly re-buttoning his shirt. Scully was standing outside the van, watching him through the open sliding door and destroying her manicure. 

Finally Mulder climbed out of the van and joined her. He put his hands on her shoulders lightly. "Scully, relax. Please. This'll work. It'll be all right." 

"How can you say that?" she snapped at him, pulling free. "How do you know he won't just shoot you?" 

"He won't." Mulder was totally confident. "He needs to kill me the way he killed the others, or his pattern isn't restored. That's why he needs me back: to restore the pattern. Serials are slaves to their kill ritual, Scully. You know that. If he has any choices, he'll try to maintain the ritual as best he can." 

She shuddered and he hugged her. "The Gunmen are good at what they do and I'm wired. I'll be okay." 

The Gunmen had brought three layers of tracking equipment and Olivencia had supplied FBI standard to make a fourth. 

Four homing beacons, each on a different frequency, had been swallowed. Three more, each on three more different frequencies, were glued to his scalp, masquerading as hair. Three more, on yet more different frequencies, had been carefully threaded into the cuts on his arms and legs, underneath the stitches. Olivencia had been stunned at the technology represented by the hair-fine filaments that the Gunmen proved were just as effective at the short distances available to them at the site. The briefcases contained the tunable receivers that they calibrated, checked and re-checked. There was almost no chance that all ten of the covert homers could fail or be discovered, or that all three receivers would fail. 

"He isn't likely to be able to discover and/or block all of this, Agent Scully," Frohike assured her. He had finished his work and stepped out to join them. "And any of these receivers can pick up any of the homers. We aren't going to risk losing him again." 

She shuddered. It had been very hard to insert those wires inside his wounds, since the whole point would have been negated if the Butcher was made suspicious by new stitches. She had had to hurt him, and the memory of it still bothered her. 

"Stop it," he spoke to her gently. "He's going to hurt me. I'm resigned to that. But then you and Skinner and Sky and the guys in HRT are going to swoop down and rescue me, and everything will turn out fine." 

* * *

They saw no sign of HRT; Mulder was reasonably sure  
that the HRT unit had gone in by helicopter and were already in  
place, surrounding the house. They were experts at skulking  
and sneaking.

"He didn't say anything about coming alone?" Skinner asked for at least the third time since they had left the corner rendezvous. 

"Nope. Probably knew I wouldn't, no matter what. He knows I'm an FBI agent." 

"Mulder?" Scully waited until he turned to face her. "You said he didn't use handcuffs on you because he based a value judgment on your phobic responses?" 
    
    
         Mulder nodded shortly.
         "Why does it frighten me so much that he isn't trying to
    isolate you?"
         Mulder looked thoughtful.  "I suspect he has very little
    

respect for law enforcement at the best of times," he said slowly. "As far as we know, his other victims were all civilians. So his only real data on law enforcement is me. I was no more difficult to capture than any of his other victims, I presented poorly, but I escaped; I recovered physically quickly and taunted him on television, but we still haven't caught him. Conflicting messages." 

"So how will he deal with that contradiction?" Skinner asked from the front seat. 

Mulder gnawed on his lip. "If each fact had equal value, it might very well be a paralyzing conflict," he said slowly. "He caught me and he hurt me. I haven't caught him, and he's got a plan in place that includes hurting me more... so I guess he's ahead on points." 
    
    
         "I don't like this, Mulder."
         Mulder forced himself to relax and close his eyes.
    

"Neither do I, sir. But we can't let anything happen to Lauren or the baby." 

Scully forced herself to sit still. There was nothing she could say, after all. 'Protect and Serve' was why each and every one of them had chosen law enforcement as a career. 

* * *

The address on Maplewood was an old farmhouse set  
back from the road, surrounded by vacant and weedy  
pastures. The barn was shaky-looking and its main door was  
hanging ajar. Lightning had taken down a tall sycamore tree in  
the side yard and it had fallen on the back of the house. Mulder  
decided it must have happened early in a thunderstorm, since  
the fire had stayed small. The house had a damaged roof but  
was still fairly sound and might remain so for years.

The fleet sedans parked in a neat row on the street out front. Skinner, in the last car, made sure an especially thick patch of shrubbery was hiding him from the house, and cued his portable radio. 
    
    
         "Lieutenant Dunbar?"
         The static was squelched so low it could not be heard in
    the back seat.  "On location and ready, sir."
         "Roger that," Skinner nodded.  "Stand by; operation
    about to commence."
         "Wilco."
         Skinner turned to study the two agents in the back seat.
    "How do you want to play this, Mulder?"
         Mulder shrugged.  "He'll tell us what to do to get Lauren
    and the baby back.  Until they're safe, we do what he says."
         "And not a moment longer!"  Scully snapped.
         The chirping of her cell phone brought silence.  She
    picked it up and hit SEND. "Scully."
         "Not you!"
         Wordlessly, she handed the cell phone to her partner.
         "Mulder."  He listened intently for several minutes, then
    hit END and handed the phone back to his partner.
         "Well?" the AD demanded.
         "Just like some old Cold War prisoner exchange,"
    

Mulder explained. "I start up the driveway. Lauren and the baby start down the driveway. Ideally, she gets to the curb about the time I get to the door." 

"No," Skinner said calmly. "You are NOT to put yourself back into his hands, Mulder. When you reach Lauren, you stop. Act as a rear guard for her, or stand and taunt him into coming out and into range. You aren't going inside that house! That's an order!" 
    
    
         "Sir..."
         "You will not give him the opportunity to use you as a
    

hostage, Mulder." Skinner was implacable. "This is about removing all choices for him but surrender. You understand me?" 

"Yes, sir." Mulder wilted a little, leaned back into his seat and scrubbed at his face. "He's got my weapon, remember." 

"That's why you're wearing body armor," Scully reminded him gently. "Now go fake him out of his hostages. I want to go home." 

The other agents in the other cars emerged when Skinner did. The plan had been discussed, by radio, the entire time they had been on the road from DC. Everyone knew what to do. 

The grim-faced agents, all wearing Kevlar under their suits, lined up across the frontage and then spread themselves more thinly, so they could watch the back of the house in case their UNSUB bolted. 

The last agent out was Mulder, who suddenly seemed both tired and unsure. He moved slowly, with evident pain and Scully frowned. "Mulder?" 

He was not yet facing the house; he was leaning on the car. "I'm okay, Scully. This is for him, not for real. He's watching." 

She swallowed hard, and then went to him, put a concerned hand on his back, the other on his wrist. "Are you sure you can do this?" 
    
    
         "I'm sure."
         She stepped back with visible reluctance.  "Go for it."
    

Instead of thinking about how scared she was, or he was, she glanced over at Mickey Bender. 

He was standing, pale but steady, right beside AD Skinner. He was terrified, but he refused to be left behind. 

Mulder walked down the edge of the swale and stopped at the end of the driveway. "On your mark!" he called toward the house. 

Fully twenty separate seconds elapsed before the front door opened and a woman became visible there. In her arms she cradled her newborn daughter, who was squalling and waving her arms around. 

Mulder studied Lauren Bender's face intently. She was terrified, certainly; so was he. But she was not wavering, and her back was straight. She had not surrendered to her fear, yet. 

Scully scanned the hostages, looking for injuries. She did not see any, and allowed herself to relax fractionally. There was a possibility of a happy ending here. 

Laura smiled tightly when her eyes caught Mulder's. "Set?" she called, her voice trembling only a little. 

Mulder nodded, then flinched slightly when a third voice, from the house, snarled, "Go!" 

The first step was the hardest. He heard someone behind him pull back the slide on a Glock to load the first round, and relaxed a little. It was wonderfully reassuring to know that he had a team behind him. 
    
    
         The second step was easier.
         Lauren was moving more quickly than he was; she was
    

in better shape and she had the baby to think about. That was fine with Mulder; the farther she came the safer they would both be. 

The driveway was gravel and Mulder did not want to fall on it, so he was careful as he limped along. The limp was feigned but effective: it was why he was moving so slowly, and his slow pace was helping Lauren move father away from the house. 

It was becoming more and more difficult to move. The air felt as if it was becoming thick as molasses. He puzzled at that sensation, worried at it like a dog with a bone. Something about this entire setup felt very wrong. He felt tension growing in his gut, in his back and body. The urge to turn and run back to the safety of the car where Scully and Skinner waited was powerful and becoming more so with every step he took. 

There was something wrong about the house. He studied it, analyzed it, but could not put his finger on the wrongness. It was just there. 

By this time, Lauren was only a few yards away, and he could see that she was staring at him with desperation showing in her eyes. He could hardly force himself to move through the wrongness, but somehow he managed to smile at her. She was too upset to smile back, but it was clear that she had something to say. As they approached, Mulder spoke first, keeping his voice very soft so the Butcher would not hear. 
    
    
         "Is he really in there, Lauren?"
         She nodded.  "Don't go in there, Agent Mulder.  He's
    got a bomb set up; it's big enough to demolish the house."
         That crystalized his decision.  "Run, Lauren; Mickey's
    waiting for you."
         "But...!"
         "Run!  Now!"
         She ran.
         A howl of rage came from the house, followed, as
    

Mulder had expected, by gunfire. He turned to follow Lauren, hoping that he could interfere with the Butcher's aim by offering two targets. Given the choice of killing the woman, who meant nothing to him, or killing Mulder, his escaped prey, surely he would aim at the agent... 

Scully wanted nothing so much as to be out there with her partner. Her best friend was out there in the open, voluntarily walking toward his enemy, willing to offer himself up to death by torture in order to save a woman and baby he had never met. 

There seemed to be no way for her to keep him safe; she knew that if she screwed this up, Mulder, Lauren and the baby would die. 

Her teeth ground together so hard that Skinner glanced at her, startled. He could not see her fingernails punching holes in her palms. 

When Lauren started to run, Scully gasped. The plan was breaking down. 

Gunfire brought out the expected response from the watching agents: they began to return fire, hoping to give Lauren and Mulder some cover. 

Lauren flung herself into her husband's arms, sobbing, just as Mulder went down hard on the gravel driveway and did not move. 
    
    
         "Mulder!"  Scully abandoned her post and ran forward.
         Skinner made a grab for her, missed and started after
    her. He had only taken one step when the house exploded.
         The blast knocked Scully off her feet and flung her
    

backwards several yards. When she could move again, she found that she was covered in debris. She rolled over and found that it was just a thin layer of wood splinters and dust. She brushed it all aside without difficulty and sat up. 

Her head hurt and felt thick. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, and slowly realized that she was watching Skinner and the other agents struggling out from under debris just as she had done. She looked the other way and saw a skirmish line of HRT agents coming out of the woods. Between them and herself was the wreckage of the house, burning. 
    
    
         There was nothing left of it that was recognizable.
         Nothing.
         A cold drench of adrenaline shoved her to her feet, sent
    her stumbling toward the house.  "Mulder! MULDER!!!"
         Sky Crawford looked up a few minutes later and saw
    

Scully struggling to move chunks of debris that were larger than she was. He limped over to help her. In a few moments the rest of the team from headquarters was taking down the pile. It took them only a few minutes to uncover Mulder's still form. 

Scully dropped to her knees beside him and her hands went to his face and throat, seeking a pulse, while her eyes roved over him, evaluating his condition. 

Looking over her shoulder, Crawford was worried: his friend had been awfully close to that blast. 

"Get me an ambulance," Scully ordered, not bothering to look up to see who acknowledged the order. 

Skinner was reaching for his cell phone when a hand on his arm stopped him. It was the HRT CO, Lieutenant Dunbar, who had just joined the group. His men were guarding a perimeter that included the burning house, the debris field and their cars. 

"Our transport is two minutes away, sir," the lieutenant offered quietly. "And it has the range to get him to Walter Reed." 

Skinner shook his head and smiled grimly. "His favorite team of trauma specialists are at Northwest Georgetown," he commented. "But that's a good idea, Neil. Call your pilot in, and thank you." 

Lt Dunbar backed a step so he would not inadvertently salute; he had been a Marine, too, and Skinner inspired that sort of thing. He pulled out his radio and took a few more steps away so he would not disturb the others. 
    
    
         "Mulder, lie still!"
         They all turned at Scully's sharp command, to see
    

Mulder trying to sit up. He was plainly in pain, and it was Skinner on one side and Crawford on the other who helped him sit without further stressing his broken ribs. Crawford sat down behind him, back to back, to offer some physical support. 

Mulder sighed as he leaned against his friend. "Thanks, Sky." 
    
    
         "You're welcome.  How bad are you?"
         "I'm not hurt at all," he insisted.  "I stepped in a pothole
    

and fell, and getting up hurts. I decided staying down couldn't hurt as much. Then the bomb went off and I was stunned for a little while. My ears are still ringing. That's all. Really." 

And it seemed that he really was telling the truth, Scully realized. There was no blood but from a minor scrape on the back of his hand. 

The helicopter's arrival made further conversation difficult. Skinner made his decision instantly. He pulled Scully close so he could talk into her ear and she could hear him. "Take the chopper; get Mulder back to Quantico." He knew the chopper would not get a flight clearance into downtown DC to land at the Hoover Building. "He doesn't need to suffer through the drive back. Take Crawford. I'll call the crime scene technicians out here to do the wrap. Mulder's off-duty now; do you want leave, as well?" 

She nodded. This was a good plan; the hospital was much closer to their homes, saving driving time after the doctors cleared Mulder for release. She did not think he was badly hurt, but he had been too close to that explosion for her peace of mind. "Thank you, sir. Maybe I can get him to take the time to heal properly." 
    
    
         Skinner grinned.  "Maybe.  Good luck!"
         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
         "And that was all," Crawford concluded the tale.  "Case
    

closed but not cleared by the death of the prime suspect. I rode back in the chopper and drove them," he waved at the partners, "back to Dana's apartment after he was checked out at the clinic at Quantico to make sure that he hadn't been hurt again. The next day the DEA called me back, and I was gone." 

The listeners were silent for a moment. It was Scully who smiled wickedly. "You missed the chaos of the next few days." 
    
    
         Crawford frowned.  "'Chaos'?  Why?  What happened?"
         Scully traded glances with Mulder, who shrugged.  "I
    

wrote it up as an X File and filed it under unsolved. Then I took two weeks medical leave." 

"Why?" Crawford was confused, now. "What was unsolved? Mrs. Bender's deposition must've been pretty damning, and the guy had your cell phone and your weapon. How was he not the Butcher?" 

Mulder sighed. "Oh, he was the Butcher; there's little doubt of that. But we never found his body, we could never identify him, and therefore we couldn't clear the case." 

From her chair Reyes leaned forward, frowning, clearly puzzled. "Wait a minute. Our crime scene people couldn't find any trace of the body in the rubble of that house? Not one trace?" 

Mulder shook his head. "Nope. Not one iota of organic remains were ever identified." 
    
    
         "That's impossible."
         Mulder could only shrug helplessly.
         Doggett snorted.  "It's not impossible; it just means he
    

sneaked out the back way while everyone was watching you and Mrs. Bender." 

Scully smiled thinly. "If only it was that simple. No, remember, John: Neil Dunbar was up in the trees with two dozen HRT agents. They had had scopes on the house for an hour before we even arrived. Mrs. Bender testified that the man who grabbed her and her infant from her home and took her there remained with her the entire time, and he literally shoved her out the door to walk down the driveway. All he talked about the entire time was how much he was going to punish Mulder for having the audacity to escape from him. It was clearly the Butcher, and he had no opportunity to escape from the house. Yet, he was not there. It was an apparent paradox that everyone involved found extremely frustrating, but it was never resolved." 
    
    
         "And you just let it drop, Mulder?"  Byers was puzzled.
         "I went home and slept for three days," Mulder
    

answered readily. "I really wasn't in any shape to do anything else about it. When I did come back to work, the case was closed. I did pull it out every now and then; there's no such thing as a cold X File. But some of 'em do get cool... especially when there's no new data." 

Langly, sitting on the floor at the far end of the room, his back against the wall, grimaced. "Here's a new idea for you." 
    
    
         Mulder turned to look at him.
         Langly met his eyes unflinchingly, uncharacteristically
    grim. "What if this Butcher was a SuperSoldier?"
         Someone in the room gasped.
         "If the bomb was to cover his escape and end your
    

pursuit... he would have lain hidden in the rubble until he reconstituted, and it wouldn't have taken him long." Langly was talking fast, as if he expected to be interrupted or contradicted. "Once it got dark, he could have sneaked away. Whatever agents were guarding the site while it cooled off weren't expecting anyone to be escaping from the site, so they wouldn't have been watching for that. By the time the crime scene guys could go in the next morning, he'd been gone for hours." 
    
    
         Mulder, Scully and Skinner all stared at one another.
         "That's reasonable," Skinner muttered.
         "That's terrifying," Scully said finally.
         Crawford could only stare.  "Maybe to you it is...!
    

'SuperSoldier? Reconstituted'?! Someone tell me what the hell you're talking about!" 
    
    
         That earned him a round of soft chuckles.
         "Remember Scully explaining to you what we did on the
    X Files?" Mulder inquired.
         Crawford nodded.  "30% man-eating monsters and
    

70% preventing alien colonization. I wasn't sure I could believe that, but there was too much going on right then to make an issue of it." 

"A SuperSoldier is, to the best of our ability to determine it, a genetically altered human," Scully took up the explanation. "Our best information to date is that certain people were abducted, subjected to involuntary gene therapy that uses, contrary to all human logic, a lethal virus. The virus kills the host. Just before the host dies, the introduced genes are activated and perform major alterations on the body: tremendously increased strength and speed, including replacing at least part of the bone structure -- specifically the vertebrae-- with what appears to be a malleable metal that remembers its intended structure and returns to it as soon as possible. Then the body reconstitutes around it... and the SuperSoldier is back. We haven't found anything that will kill one permanently. Billy Miles fell several stories off a building and landed in a garbage truck that compacted him; a few hours later he was seen perfectly well, alive and healthy. They're relentless, but they don't seem to have any augmentation of the intellect. Thank God." 

Crawford considered. "Is that why they abducted you?" he asked his friend softly. 

Mulder shuddered. "Yeah, we think so. And we still aren't sure why it didn't work. Billy was recovered as a three-month floater, but after a day in the hospital he just sloughed off the damaged tissue and stood up healthy and... a SuperSoldier . I'd been just as dead for just as long... but I just woke up. I heal unnaturally fast, but I'm not invulnerable and I don't have the visible vertebrae. It doesn't make a lot of sense." 

"Maybe it does..." Scully spoke softly. "You've had both the Black Oil and the vaccine for it; you've been exposed to the green foam virus twice. Maybe those changes interfered with whatever it was that caused Billy Miles to become a SuperSoldier ." 

Mulder leaned his cheek against her thigh. "Maybe. That does seem reasonable..." 

"I'm confused again," Crawford sighed. "Black Oil? Green foam? C'mon, have pity on me, Rad!" 

Without relinquishing his contact with Scully, Mulder gave him a brief --and necessarily incomplete-- summary of the pertinent history. It only took a half hour, with interruptions and interjections from the others. 

"Do these bounty hunters feel pain?" Crawford asked, fascinated. "What about the SuperSoldiers? 
    
    
         Mulder shrugged.  "We don't know."
         Doggett interrupted them.  "So why would the Butcher
    

have deliberately blown up the house and let himself burn to death? Just so you wouldn't catch him?" 

Mulder frowned thoughtfully as his mind raced. "Hmm... maybe so we'd stop chasing him. But he must have been an early model, or he wouldn't have been acting like a serial killer. His intellect was unimpaired, but he was clearly psychologically damaged." 

"But couldn't that have been because for some reason they started with a defective human subject?" Reyes suggested thoughtfully. 

Byers chuckled. "Some poor hapless alien was sent out to abduct a suitable human and he brought back A. B. Normal the nascent serial killer." 

Mulder laughed. "Let's hope he got fired for that goof-up!" 

"But if this is true... maybe they can be subverted?" Skinner offered. 

Mulder glanced at Skinner, startled at the very idea. "Billy never spoke. It was never clear if he understood words addressed to him. He certainly retained some comprehension or he wouldn't have been able to follow Scully as effectively as he did. When we compared notes after Will was born we realized that he may have had some kind of tracker --or some kind of extra sensory input we can't define-- that was irrevocably focused on her... or on Will. The way Billy and his coterie of shadows disappeared after Will was safely born still doesn't make any sense to us." 

It was Doggett's turn to comment. "Knowle Rohrer is one of those things, too," he said very quietly. "He functioned \--functions!-- perfectly well as an operative. He can hardly be distinguished from the man he once was." 

Mulder nodded slowly, cognizant that Doggett had lost a friend in the transformation process. "Two castes of SuperSoldiers?" he suggested. "Officers like Rohrer and Agent Crane and cannon fodder like Billy?" 

Doggett nodded. "Maybe. Billy was only barely functional on a human level; Rohrer is. So there is something fundamentally different." 

"Billy Miles was a multiple abductee," Scully suggested. "Maybe Rohrer wasn't?" 

Doggett shrugged. "We don't have any data on Rohrer's life." 

"Maybe we should acquire some," Byers said quietly. "I'll work on it." 

"If they retain that much of their original individuality, maybe members of that officer class, at least, could be convinced to defect? Or, at least, to refrain from actively opposing us?" Reyes inquired. 

Scully frowned. "I don't think I could ever bring myself to trust one, either way." 

"Was the Beltway Butcher ever heard from again?" Frohike asked. 

Disturbed by the level of unease the topic stirred in him, Mulder got up to pace. "If the Butcher was a prototype SuperSoldier and a serial killer, then he's still doing it, and will continue to do so till we find a way to kill him and all his kind." 
    
    
         Scully snorted.
         "Dammit," Mulder grumbled.  "I know!  There isn't any
    

way to speculate on that. They're so much stronger than humans that we've never managed to identify anything that can kill one." 

"There wasn't any reason why Callina Finch shouldn't have closed the file," Scully pointed out quietly. "I would have, in her shoes. There was no reason to believe that the suspect was not dead. Occam's Razor says he's dead. So she closed. That means that his MO and signature are archived rather than in the active file at VICAP. New searches would not have access to it." 

Mulder stopped pacing and grinned at her. "Maybe we should put it back in and see what happens." 

Scully looked thoughtful. "I wonder what I'd get if I searched on missing persons after fires or building collapses or floods and similar untenable situations..." 

"I'll do those for you, Scully," Langly volunteered. "I can make those search engines sit up and beg." 
    
    
         She nodded.  "All right.  Thanks."
         "Include suicides, Langly; include any reported death
    

without a body," Mulder suggested. "If the original human subject was a serial killer, he's not going to change his pattern. If the SuperSoldier he became is some kind of defective model, he may very well continue to follow a human pattern rather than whatever alien awareness he possesses. If he stayed at least that human, we should be able to identify him through that pattern. If he doesn't, we won't; we don't know enough about the aliens to predict their behavior." 

Crawford frowned. "How much humanity remains in one of these SuperSoldiers ?" he asked. 

Scully shuddered and Will, disturbed by her distress, began to whimper. She cuddled him closer, crooning wordlessly, and Mulder returned to kneel beside her close enough to add his low rumble to her voice, underscoring Scully's presence with his own. Will calmed quickly and even waved his hands toward his father. Scully smiled and handed the baby to his father. 
    
    
         "Here.  He wants you."
         Mulder accepted, cradled the baby carefully, and
    

settled back down on the floor where he had been. He spent a few moments greeting his son, offering a finger to be held, crooning gentle sounds that the others could barely hear. Will smiled gummily and held on tight, his eyes focused on his father's face. 

No one else spoke or even thought about anything else: the sight of Fox Mulder, alive and healthy, cradling his own naturally-conceived son was so incredible that they all paused to savor it, even Scully, who had seen it every day since Will's birth. 

After several minutes of babytalk, Mulder sighed and leaned back against the chair. He ignored the fact that he was the focus of the attention of everyone in the room. 

"Enough. It's Christmas. Let's talk about you, Sky. Frohike said you're just out of the hospital? What happened?" 

Crawford shrugged and relaxed a little, himself. "My cover got blown and I got shot," he said casually. Then his expression darkened. "I haven't been notified officially but I'm getting a choice of a desk or a medical retirement. I'll never get my field status back." 

Mulder frowned, visibly studying his friend. "Why? What happened?" 

Crawford shrugged again. "I got machine-gunned, Rad. I got two chipped vertebrae, lost my spleen and half a lung. My hearing's down forty percent on the left side. I can't pass the physical any more." 

"I'm sorry." Mulder could not help but feel a twinge of guilt: he had survived much worse treatment than that, and he was whole and intact, and fully capable of continuing his work. His only lingering damage was psychological. He had been dealing with PTSD most of his life and knew he was quite capable of continuing to do so. Sky Crawford had lost his life's work. 

An idea sprang to life, full-grown, and Mulder saw Crawford's expression change when he noticed the shift in Mulder's body language. 
    
    
         "What?"
         "Can you still shoot, Sky?"
         "Damn straight!" he growled the answer, nettled.
         "Can you still drive?"
         "How do you think I got here?"
         "Did you leave anyone behind in LA?"  Mulder heard
    

the others stirring as they realized he had something in mind. Scully's hand came down on his shoulder and he knew she had already caught on. 

Crawford shook his head. "No. I've been working long-term deep cover assignments. There's no way to maintain a relationship through that." 
    
    
         "Kids?"
         "Not that I know of.  Probably not; I tried to be careful."
         "Want to move back here?"
         Crawford paused for a moment, thinking hard.  "'Back?' 
    

I never lived here except for those sixteen weeks at Quantico." He waited, but Mulder did not comment, staring at him intently. "Sure. And do what?" 
    
    
         "Join the resistance?"
         Scully found herself grinning at the stunned expression
    

in Doggett's eyes. Skinner was frozen. It was Reyes who chuckled out loud. The Gunmen were whispering among themselves. 
    
    
         Crawford stared at Mulder.  "Resistance?"
         Mulder waved inclusively at his guests.  "This is the
    

human resistance, DC chapter. We're here to resist the impending destruction or enslavement of our species by alien invaders and preserve our homeworld for its native species. Ridiculous as it may seem, there are humans opposing us, as well as Bounty Hunters and SuperSoldiers and black worms and God alone knows what else. Want to enlist?" 
    
    
         Crawford swallowed hard.  "You're serious, aren't you?"
         "Serious as a heart attack, Sky," Mulder nodded. 
    

"Scully and I have both been abducted and subjected to experimentation. Both of us lost our sisters to the human consortium of quislings. Hundreds if not thousands of other people have suffered such fates. The situation is escalating; we don't have an exact timetable, but it's an easy guess that things will come to a head sometime before Will reaches adulthood. He's significant to their planning, somehow. We're not going to stand aside and let them take us without a fight. We may not succeed, but we'll go down swinging." 

Crawford looked up at Scully, who looked just as serious as her mate. No one was laughing, he realized. 

"You think these are the people who kidnapped Samantha?" The story of Mulder as the bereaved brother had made the rounds at Quantico; all his classmates had heard it. 

Mulder nodded. "And used her like a lab rat until she was fourteen," he said harshly, "when she determined to end it by trying to escape. She left a diary." 

Crawford did not inquire further; Mulder's utterly emotionless expression was all he could handle of that. Mulder's eyes had gone flat and gray, and Crawford could not look at him. 

"Jesus." He took a deep breath. "Can we fight them?" he asked. "I mean, their aircraft have been flying circles around ours for decades; they have interstellar travel. They're way ahead of us in physics, technology and, it appears, the biological sciences. Is there any real hope?" 

"We don't know how to kill a SuperSoldier yet," Reyes said calmly. "The Bounty Hunters have a weak spot at the base of the neck in the back. When you kill them you must hold your breath and get away ASAP; as the body foams away, a particularly nasty virus is released." 
    
    
         Crawford looked puzzled.  "A virus?  From the body?"
         "Apparently," Mulder nodded.  "The first time it
    

happened to me it must have been just a marginal exposure; it was just painful and my immune system defeated it in a few days without significant assistance. The second time was overwhelming: nothing would have saved me except Scully knew what to do and had the strength of personality to override the better judgment of an entire US Army medical ER." 

"Doesn't surprise me," Crawford's eyes twinkled as he took in the tableau presented by the couple and their infant. 

Frohike raised his glass. "Then, my friends, let us welcome the latest recruit: welcome to the nightmare, Agent Crawford!" 

Everyone clinked their glasses together, and even Will's little voice was part of it as they all toasted the new combatant. 

* * *

Crawford went back to California the next day. He went  
directly to his office from the airport and met with his  
supervisor, Manfred Warner, who confirmed what Crawford  
already had surmised: his medical evaluation had come  
through and was damning.

"You don't have to resign or retire, Crawford," the older man reminded him. "We can boot you to an administrative or support position. You could train new agents; your kind of experience is hard to come by." 

"I know how hard it is, Mannie," Crawford growled. "Most of the guys who've been where I've been and done what I've done are dead." 

"We thought you were dead, JD," Warner said quietly. "We were planning your funeral when the hospital in Bangkok called." 

Crawford shook his head. "No, I'm going to make a clean break; well, relatively clean. I'll take the medical retirement, Mannie. I've got an offer in DC, so I won't be too bored." 
    
    
         "What agency?"
         He grinned.  "I'm going private, Mannie.  A friend of
    

mine is organizing some people and he asked me to sign up. I agreed." 
    
    
         "Organizing for what?"
         Crawford shrugged, not inclined to elaborate.  "He's
    

ex-FBI; I'm ex-DEA. I imagine the rest of the recruits will have similar histories. I promise it's not illegal; we're not going to assault Fort Knox or anything." 

Mannie chuckled, but he still looked worried. He stuck out his hand. "Well, I hope you know what you're doing. It's been an honor serving with you, JD. Don't be a stranger." 

"Oh, I don't imagine I will be." He paused, considering, and decided it was worth it. Scully had been emphatic that they needed informants and tipsters in order to get enough data to make accurate extrapolations of the enemy's plans and focus, and he had served with Mannie Warner for more than a decade. "I'd appreciate a head's up on a few things your teams might encounter..." 
    
    
         Mannie Warner looked puzzled.  "What sort of things?"
         "When you hear of a death and when the pros go in to
    

recover the body there is none. Any case of a guy apparently surviving the unsurvivable, like he's bulletproof without body armor. Any stories of bodies that show anything like black worms crawling out of the eyes, nose, and ears. People with black oil swirling in their eyes, or entirely black eyes: no whites at all. Anybody who does something despicable with utter boldness, then is found nearby shaking, hysterical, claiming they don't know anything about the last several hours or days." 

The other man stared at Crawford. "Sounds like stuff we should forward to the FBI's X Files Division." 
    
    
         Crawford grinned.
         "Oh, my God," Warner moaned.  "You roomed with Fox
    Mulder at Quantico, didn't you?"
         "Yepper."
         "I heard he got killed in the line of duty last year. Who's
    running the shop, now?"
         Crawford's grin got wider.  "Mulder's not dead; they
    

resurrected him, but some dickhead Deputy Director fired him over some minor insubordination. Mulder's gone private, and I'm going with him." 

Warner just shook his head, and Crawford knew that his boss -- ex-boss, he reminded himself-- thought he was speaking of an undercover operation. There was no point in correcting him, and insisting on the actual truth might make Warner doubt his choices or how serious he was about collecting that information. 

Crawford realized suddenly that this is the sort of thing that Mulder had had to deal with for years. 

Warner went back to sit down behind his desk. "Tell Mulder he's got allies out here, JD." 

Crawford cocked his head to one side, puzzled. "Mannie?" 

"When they recovered Mulder's body up in Montana last year, one of the survivors with the cult was my stepdaughter Summer Shanahan," he replied softly. "She told us everything that she remembered. She wouldn't lie; the story was pretty brutal. She thought Mulder was dead, though." 

Crawford swallowed hard. "He was," he confirmed it baldly. "His partner buried him next to his mother and tried to go on. But then AD Skinner got a tip and had him exhumed. A week in the hospital and he was fine. He's home, and he and Scully have a baby son." 

Warner could only stare. "They exhumed him and he recovered?! Must have dug him up pretty quick, right? Or he'd've smothered." 
    
    
         "He was in the grave for three months, Mannie."
         There was a moment of silence as they stared at one
    another.  "How could that be, JD?"
         Crawford shrugged helplessly.  "I don't understand it,
    

either. But I trust Mulder; he and Dana would not lie to me. So, somehow, it happened." 

"Okay..." Warner relaxed back in his chair. "Summer told us some pretty weird and off-the-wall things when we got her back. I'll believe it. Unless I learn why I shouldn't." 

Crawford laughed, startled. "You want to come with me? Mulder says getting people to buy in as far as you is the hardest part." 

Warner leaned back in his chair. "When you're settled give me a call. I think I'd like to meet the famous Fox Mulder." 

Crawford grinned widely. "I can arrange that, Mannie." He held out a hand. 

Warner got up and walked around the desk to shake Crawford's hand. He walked the ex-agent to his office door. "See Eunice for the paperwork, JD. I gotta call Cadre and see if I can replace you." 

He waited until Crawford was talking to Eunice, the unit's administrative assistant, before he turned to go back inside his office. The door closed behind him and JD Crawford never saw the odd shape of his old CO's neck and upper spine. 

#### If you enjoyed this story, please feed the author.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Title: **Project Truthseekers #3: Welcome to the Nightmare**  
Author: Wylfcynne  
Details: 184k  ·  PG-13  ·  Series  ·  12/31/05  ·   Email/Website      
Gossamer Category(Keywords): X-File   [Romance, Friendship, Angst]     
Characters: Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Doggett, Reyes, Sky     
Pairings: Mulder/Scully   
SPOILERS: Through Season 8   
SUMMARY: "The New Truth" offers an alternative to S9   
wherein Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, with the assistance of Agent John Doggett, Agent Monica Reyes and Assistant   
Director Walter Skinner, establish and lead a global resistance to the impending alien colonization. 


End file.
